


Basil

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Category: Parasol Protectorate - Gail Carriger
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, M/M, Serial Crimes, Torture, Violence, because it isn't the same without those, more to be added - Freeform, nefarious plots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 29,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: It is the month of October, 1879, and Professor Randolph Lyall has gone missing. As the time goes on and Lyall's death becomes more likely, the London pack alphas are both pulled in different directions. Someone is attacking Alexia, and Conall Maccon is tasked with finding the culprits of a string of crimes, all marked with an eight pointed star. He must do this amid notes from the perpetrator, whose scent he cannot pick up. To top it off, Quesnel Lefoux arrives in town, looking for his mother, and it seems like the past is not quite done with London, except this time, the issue comes from a far longer time ago- from the middle of the Dark Ages, in fact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> SEMI GRAPHIC RAPE/NON-CON  
> SEMI GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF ABUSE

Alexia doesn’t mean to get herself in these situations. No, really, she doesn’t. It’s just… she calls it an occupational hazard. It starts like this: she is in the carriage, thinking about her baby and how she isn’t that much of a baby anymore.That, and how, eventually, Prudence will gain the skills to get out of the house without supervision, and go wandering, and likely get herself into some hazards of her own, occupation notwithstanding. Prudence is too much like Alexia. She would do it, and she would do it with glee. Alexia is thinking of how to address this thing that seems to be creeping up on her more quickly than it ever did before, when her carriage- the one used for business- trembles.

_ Blast _ , she thinks, because she already knows what sort of sign that is, and dearly hopes that the claviger driving- a newer fellow by the name of James Cadbury- has not been offed already. That would be terribly unfortunate. Ethel, her faithful sundowner pistol which she has grown marginally better at shooting, is in hand before the shaking subsides. With her parasol in her other lacy kid glove, Alexia waits, stock still and ready.

There’s never anything to do but wait, in times like this. The shuttered window is broken open, and, as it turns out, Alexia finds herself pitted against the average gang of daywalking miscreants. They don’t look like drones to her. The first one, a rather rugged man with a crooked nose and a full beard, gets poked in the eye with the parasol and falls back, dispatched for now. The second, which attacks from the other side after getting the other shutter open, swings one long, ragged arm at Alexia. She lets off a shot. It hits him near the shoulder.

She should really learn to go for the head.

“James! James, do say something.”

“Bit busy, miss, how are you fairing?!” Alexia hears another thump, and guesses that James must be in a similar predicament, as the carriage begins to slide off of its course at a breakneck speed, the horses spooked.

“I believe I really must learn to aim for important-” here Alexia is obliged to hit someone else on the head with the butt of Ethel- “Bits when shooting!”

“That’s very likely!” James hollers back over the shout of another assailant. Just as the carriage is about to go too far, James grabs up the reins again and pulls hard. The carriage tips a bit, Alexia knocking against one brocade wall, gets this close to crashing against the side of a house or three, then balances out. The lady of the London Pack is in a tangle of skirts, broken wood, and indignity on the floor of the carriage. There is a spray of blood on one wall.

The shutters are ruined. Blast. 

“Blast,” Alexia mutters out loud. She is becoming far too much like Conall for someone who is supposed to be maintaining appearances as a proper, married lady. It matters not. There is blood, and there has been an attack, and Alexia is still sitting on the floor of the rocking carriage.

With some difficulty, she manages to pull herself back onto the seat and get settled against the cushions, mind already running over what she’s done, with whom, and for what purpose to see if she has unwittingly bred enemies, or if maybe this is a product of something else.

When Conall sees her, he looses it a bit. Alexia is at the door to the sitting room, feeling more severe and cross than usual.

“Conall,” she says, a bit frustrated at Conall’s pushing into her space, trying to gauge if she’s really alright. He’s nosing along her neck just now, and she’s positive that the action is not strictly to see if she’s fine. That is one of his favorite places. She only allows it because he’s looking particularly striking in navy blue tonight, and his cravat is almost straight. “Husband. Truly. I am functional, and I would like you to come see the carriage. I shot one. His blood is on the wall.”

“Shot him where?”

“The shoulder.”

“Should have shot him in the head.”

“I was just mentioning that to James. He seems in agreement that I should attempt to be more lethal. Now. To business.”

“In five minutes.” Conall says, shutting the sitting room door behind him so that certain nosy pack members would not get an eyeful.

“Now,” Alexia huffs, and, with a hard poke to Conall’s belly, makes it out of the room before she can be waylaid again. She complements him, truly, in a deep forest green.

 

…

 

The carriage is, as Alexia thought, a mess, but James is unharmed, except for a bruise or two about his person.

“They just sprang from out of nowhere, sir. Likely from one of the buildings we were passing. The street was a bit narrow,” James recounts, running a hand through his already wild hair. It had looked so nice before their ride home.

“Well, I suppose we should retrace the path the carriage took. I want to know what building they could have come from.’

“If they leapt, that explains why the carriage trembled.”

“Yes, it does. We ought to get the whole thing reinforced, not just the supports,” Conall muses as he pulls open the door, climbs inside, and takes a whiff of blood-tainted air. It’s turning a bit black now.

“This is not something I have ever smelled before. I wonder if it was robbers who did not know who you were?”

“Everyone knows who I am.” Alexia states, frank. It is true. Alexia is rarely in the papers, but when she is newsworthy, it is often the biggest news of the year. There is no way anyone could not know their name.

“Yes, but not everyone knows what you look like. You have heard what they say of you, yes?”

“Of course,” Alexia states, leaning in to get another look at the spray of blood around the little silver and wood bullet.

“Well the descriptions do not do you justice, so we cannot exclude them being just robbers of a particularly dangerous bent.”

“Very well,” Alexia concedes, turning to stroll back inside with her parasol in one hand and Ethel safely tucked away. Conall follows her. As much as he’d like to start hunting down his wife’s assailants now, it is at the end of the night, and it is time to sleep. Besides, he would definitely like to inspect her more.


	2. You Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conall begins his investigation. Someone else, somewhere else, is in trouble.

_ You are sick. You are sick and you hurt all over. In particular your head pounds like the bell of a clock tower. There is something pressing against your throat and wrists and ankles. It doesn’t hurt. It’s a bit tight. You think it will hurt eventually. _

_ You try to open your eyes, but you find you can’t. Maybe it’s because you are exhausted, but you think you might be blindfolded. Either way, you can’t see, and there is a draught that makes you shiver where you’re laying against what has to be cold metal. _

_ You hear voices, but you don’t recognize them. They discuss things. Something about an injection. Something about lab tests. You don’t move, not even when you hear something unlock and scrape back. You only move when they touch you. _

_ Then, you’re snarling and snapping and trying to fight them. It is no use, though. They’ve got you by the neck and wrists and ankles. They move you to some place that has a table they strap you to. They insert something in you. It is thicker than your blood, and it hurts to go in. they leave you alone and cold for a while, they move you again. _

_ You are very scared, now, because they make you fight other men who look like you- all haggard and sick and not belonging. They unblind you, push you out into some sort of wire cage, and tell you to attack. You look around, knees like treacle, eyes aching, migraine roaring in your ears.  _

_ They say fight, and live another day. You think of how you can get back to them. If you live long enough, you can get back to them all. So you fight, moving away from the chainlink walls with the men on the other side and out into the arena- you are positive this is what that is. It reminds you of the White. _

_ They shove another man in. He looks confused. He looks at you like you might explain. There is nothing to explain that you understand, now. They say fight. You hear live. You attack him, and find you can’t shift. He heard the same thing, and he is bigger. Not by much, but still.  He goes for you too, and his punches don’t often land, but the first one that does takes the piss out of you. You find yourself staring up at the electric lights shining through the gaps in the arena roof. You have to shift. You roll to your knees and then your feet. You can feel the change in your fingertips, the digits aching, every carpal and metacarpal straining towards the end. _

_ But it never goes farther. You look down and find you have claws, but no wolf body. It does not matter. You attack back, and you  leave his blood sprayed across the metal floor. You stand there and look around, the heavy smell of hot copper stinging your nose hairs. He was confused. He didn’t know better than you. And you have killed him. _

_ “Good job,” says a voice you know too well. He is not there when you turn around. They put someone else in the cage. You fight him too. It is a much closer call, and you have more bruises and a shallow set of cuts on one thigh, but you win, and you have killed two, now. _

_ You think you can smell the loner on them. You think Vulkasin maybe created one. A lucky one, you thought way back when. Now he is dead, and you are alone up here.  _

_ You feel queasy all the time, now, your stomach staging a revolt you wish the rest of your body could take up. These men, though, they are very good, and they do not give you the room to kill. They bring you back to the room from before and do the thing with the needle and the thick solution. They pull away your trousers and sew your leg. It hurts just the same, no matter where the needle goes. You wish they would stop. _

_ The best you can do is snap when they know you are too weak to bite. _

  
  


…

 

Alexia wakes up the following evening in better spirits, namely because Conall took his time inspecting her. His arm is thrown around her waist, clutching at her bare stomach, taking comfort in pressing his forehead against the back of Alexia’s head. The two of them no longer worry about Conall getting older in the night. He’s going to retire with his wife, after all. He may as well age at least a bit.

She has no trouble lying still, far too comfortable in the nest of blankets and husband to really bother with moving. In a few minutes, Conall begins to stir.

“Wife,” Conall intones, his voice a bit rougher. Alexia finds she likes it.

“Husband.”

“I suppose it is time to see to the business of your attackers,” he states, and Alexia can tell he does not wish to do so. Not when it is so very comfortable.

“In a few minutes, love.” Conall will not let her doze anymore though, because he starts up a trail of kisses beginning at her hairline and moving downward.

They wind up being a little late for breakfast, after all.

Eventually, though, Conall does get around to submitting a report to BUR, as well as moving back along the path the carriage took last night, James in tow. 

“If those men jumped from a building, it was a very long jump,” Conall notes, eyes on the far-away lips of townhouses.

“I suppose it was,” James noted, his clothes all tan and brown. 

“Well, time to look for something about them.”

…

 

When Conall gets to his office, he feels the familiar pang of  _ empty _ in his head as he drapes his overcoat and hat over the never-cleared-out coatrack. It’s never the way it should be, in here, with no beta to organize things. Lyall’s desk stands empty and unused, and Conall knows he and the rest of BUR will be glad when he returns from his temporary position as liaison for interterritorial disputes, on paper, and as the Kingair pack temporary beta in practice.

With a sigh, he heads down to the records room, intent on doing research and seeing what gangs could possibly work up the guts to attack the London Pack business carriage. Lyall will return. Conall will learn to trust him again. He won’t fall to Alpha madness like Vulkasin did. It will all be okay.


	3. Gossips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biffy learns something interesting.

They are positive, now, that it is not robbers who attacked Alexia Maccon. It is something else. Alexia has been attacked twice more in the past two weeks, and she is irritated now. She’s only just begun to get over her uneasiness of carriage rides. Now, she has been attacked thrice in the month of October.

“I just don’t know who it could be this time. Uneasy at it is, we have made peace with the vampires, and Sidheag is well on her way to bringing the Kingair pack back to full glory, and even the loners and roves are quiet! Who wants anything to do with me?”

“Possibly another version of the Hypocras club, then?” Conall says where he lounges improperly on the couch, long legs stretched out along its length. “It has come to my attention that loners have begun to disappear with greater frequency.”

“Possibly. I suppose, then, it is time to pen a letter to Genevieve and see what she knows.” The unwilling drone of the Woolsey clan may not respond, but if there’s a chance of this latest problem getting her away from the clan for a while, she might just do it. 

“Yes, I suppose it is,” her husband says as he scrunches his brows further in reading whatever report he has in his hands. He takes more work home with him than he did before, truly. Sometimes Alexia wishes he had never found out about Lyall. Still, though, secrets, even the best kept ones, have an uncomfortable routine of rotting away at people’s insides.

Alexia retires to the little writing desk next to the window, and works to pen something that neither presumes too much or too little, nor gives away more information than necessary. This may very well go through the queen’s hands before landing in Genevieve’s, if it does so at all.

 

…

 

Biffy is, occasionally, obliged to be on loan to BUR, and is permanently a keeper of much gossip, and a teller of very little. He’s quite like Lord Akeldama in that regard. He suppose he learned from the best, really. In any case, he gets a lot of information.

As the youngest member of the London pack, he’s not given much regard, and most don’t know of his Anubis form. Conall has advised him to keep it to himself until he gains a little more control.

Even Channing, brash and irritating as he is, has been sworn to secrecy in this. 

His current status, as keeper of Genevieve’s old shoppe and least important member of the pack, has given him quite a lot of leeway to pick up information. For instance, a few members of the ton that mix more with the nightwalkers then most have filed in, perusing the expansive display of hats hanging from little golden chains. 

He pretends to be busy looking through the books for the store, finger moving quickly down his stock of bulk fabric and needles and thread and what not, and he and he can hear them talking.

“Well, there’s a fair few less loners around then  _ usual _ . I wouldn’t be  _ surprised _ if yours has moved on  _ with the rest _ . They will be back when it’s  _ warmer _ , and there is more to be found  _ for them _ ,” says one, a shortish blonde well turned out in pale blue.

“Yes, but he did not _ say _ he was _ leaving _ . And I saw him a _ fortnight  _ ago, but he has not show up since,” this next one says, worry coloring her voice, along with the red of her cheeks and the brunette coiffer.

“Maybe it is a _ good thing _ , dear. You can’t have expected to…  _ continue _ with your  _ association _ ,” says a second brunette, this one in lilac. The first one is in a darker blue than the blonde. 

“No, I suppose not, but it is just so _ sudden _ that I am not sure what to think of it  _ at all _ .” They speak like Akeldama does- in emphasis, but they do not do it nearly so well.

“There is naught to do but  _ wait _ ,” says the blonde, and she sounds so smug that Biffy wonders how her friend with the wandering loner could stand to be around her, if this is how she acts to a companion’s bad fortune.

“I do  _ hate _ to wait.” They fall silent as the approach the counter with three different sorts of bonnets. Biffy smiles as though they’ll get what they want, but the blonde has chosen the wrong sort of decorations, so he’ll have to guide her to a better choice, really. 

That is interesting news, though, if even the attached loners are going missing. Cases like this often lead the werewolf in question to join the nearest pack and settle in order to make his lady more stable, at least for the time. So either the girl is foolish or there may be a problem. 

With this information on his mind, he arrives home to Alexia writing and Conall reading.

“How goes the search for your current foes?” Biffy inquires as he steps into the parlor with a tea tray to replace the one already long perused and ignored. 

“Well enough,” Alexia says without looking up. Conall, though, knows what that tone of voice means.

“What is it?” Biffy always has the best gossip. 

“Amongst other things, it would appear that even the attached loners are disappearing this winter, not just the usuals.

“Who said this?”

“A rather distraught, somewhat illicit birdy told her companions. Not the best source for information, I know, but I believe it is a start.” Alexia has given up on her missive and sits back. 

“In the same time that I am being attacked, loners are disappearing… this does sound like the Hypocras Club.” Biffy’s mouth twists in distaste. Neither he nor Conall hold the club in high esteem.

“One would think they’d been disbanded by now. Perhaps it is gentlemen of the same bent, but not the same face,” Biffy muses.

“Perhaps. I rather like the idea of the other members not getting far enough along in their experiments to start offing werewolves. The vampires were bad enough.” By which he means Akeldama, without which his daughter would be either dead or constantly pursued until death or disappearance.

Biffy looks to Alexia, unnaturally quiet where she is trying to write.

“You rarely look so lost for words, my lady.”

“I am attempting to pen a missive to Genevieve Lefoux. It is not working.”

“You could say you would like your parasol looked at, and could you please borrow the only inventor close enough and skilled enough to do it? Quesnel is getting old enough to be able to be left with the vampires for a month without something untoward happening, yes?” Alexia looks to Conall, who looks between her and Biffy.

“You two may do what you like. Pray don’t bring the queen’s lackeys to our doorstep, though. It would be less easy to off one and dismiss it than it was last time.”

“That is true,” Alexia agrees. Last time was under very strenuous circumstances. Last time had gained them a new werewolf, and he had almost died fighting his new life. “I shall inquire about parasol upkeep, I think.That way I can at least not divulge any undue information. Besides, this topic is easier.”

“I do wish she’d come to us,” Conall muses where he has taken over the longest couch for his impossibly long legs.

“And I as well. In any case, what’s done is done, and we have information to dig up, yes?”

“Yes,” Biffy says, and bows out. He can see his presence is no longer needed. 


	4. Serial Crimes and Bad News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conall investigates a murder and gets some bad news. you make another appearance.

_ You do not know how long it has been, but you can hazard a guess. You have killed or seriously injured five. You have been injured thrice. You know if you hang on, you will have a place to go back to. Maybe not a place that wants you, but a place that needs you. Maybe, if you go back there, you can eventually make you way home. You know these things. You keep them close to your heart, which gets farther and farther from the surface the longer this all goes on. _

_ “You never did this for me,” someone says, and you recognize that voice, but you won’t turn around. You can’t turn around. Not when you might see him. You hear footsteps that begin from the other side of your little four foot by six foot cell. You, curled up against the far wall, back to the entrance, do not see who it is. _

_ But you know. Those footsteps stop. The creak of leather is the only sound, and then the voice is right there next to your head. _

_ “You were always weaker than this, for me.” You try not to let it get to you. Not when ghostly breath slides over the shell of your ear. Not when it touches your scalp. They shaved your head to get at injury up there. It kills you, really, like nothing else does, that they shaved your head. Like they own a piece of you they can’t take with the collar around your neck that cuts into your skin when you pull to hard and chokes you just a little bit. _

_ “No, I wasn’t,” you answer back. You can’t help but answer. You have no right to ignore him. “I tore a whole family apart just to get you gone. I staged an assassination attempt just to see you fall. I provoked one of the best alphas I have ever seen or heard of, who did not deserve any of the things I did to him and his, in order to see you dead. I wasn’t weak. It’s just you never were looking in the right direction.” _

_ “He may be one of the best, but I am the best.” _

_ “You were the worst, and now you’re dead.” _

_ “What do you know of alphas, beta? What do you know of strength, when all you ever did was cower before me?” _

_ “I only cowered because you liked it.” _

_ “I wanted a stronger, better built beta.You were meant to get better, not flail away in fear.” Suddenly, you are angry. What right does he have, to decide what you are and are not? You whirl around, teeth bared, collar pulling, but no one is there. _

_ “Blast,” you whisper, not caring for once if anyone hears. Let them hear, and maybe let them die while they listen. _

 

…

 

The skies are rainy, the wind cold, and the entire atmosphere reflecting Conall Maccon’s mood. Alexia has officially been required to always have at least one werewolf with her, as Conall is not looking forward to dying in the Godbreaker zone without his wife to die with him. That is trying enough. 

On top of that, he is investigating a series of robberies, all of which have been marked by an eight-pointed star somewhere in the vicinity of the thing robbed. This is the fourth such robbery of its kind, and the human staff of BUR  have finally decided that it might be worth Conall’s time. Despite all of the crimes being done in the daylight, Conall agrees. He has to. After all, someone has died.

The townhouse he steps into looks quite normal and quite nice, with a cheerful yellow exterior and carefully pruned ivy climbing on trestles to create a more welcoming looking fence around the house’s lot. The shutters are a lovely midnight blue, and if he wasn’t investigating a murder he would not have thought twice about it.

The interior is well lit cherrywood, hung with portraits of the family, past and present. The gaslight technology is the latest London has to offer, the mirrors on either side of the little foyer he stands in are well cleaned. He and his men are led through the house, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom, where a man, in his thirties or forties, lays in his bed. 

He looks like he died having a nightmare. While there is no blood, his mouth and eyes are open wide in a soundless, frozen scream, flies buzz about his maw, and is nightware smells rank with old, soured sweat. He looks quite normal- brown hair and brown eyes and a nose that is just a bit hooked.

Conall turns away from the man, no longer in rigor mortis and starting to stink, to look at the room itself. Fleur-de-lises in cherry and peach decorate the walls where more portraits, including an ostentatious one of the man in the bed on the back of a bucking horse, do not obscure it. The dresser, chairs, rug, and dressing table are all in that dark, vibrant blue Conall saw earlier. The door is scratched through with the eight pointed star. 

He flicks open the lid of a jewelry box to find several of the man’s expensive rings nestled in soft velvet. One at a time, he picks them up.They smell strange, and there isn’t a single crest anywhere on them, except for the one he went to sleep with, and that is on his finger.

He rocks the five pieces of jewelry in his hand a bit, trying to figure out what’s wrong with them.

“Gervais,” he says, expecting his assistant to be there.

“Sir,” says the human. 

“Bag these.” He sets the rings down and moves on to another panel of the expansive jewelry box, and finds necklaces in them. With each little drawer and door and panel he flips open, he finds easy to steal things, but no one has taken them. 

“I do not believe this was a robbery.” he turns back to the necklaces.

“Ah, well, we thought they might be, given the nature of the other… crimes.” Conall moves aside a few delicate chains to draw out what looks damning, in his eyes.

“No… I think this man had something to do with whoever is leaving these signs.” the same symbol on the wall lays flat against Conall’s palm, glinting innocently in the light.

“Take all the jewelry, and let me know what you find out about the symbol.”

“Yessir,” says Gervais as he moves out of the room to fetch a few people to help him. He comes back faster than expected, as Conall is trying to figure out what was so wrong with the rings.

“Uh, sir? There’s a Finlay here to see you, sir. Says he has some information you might want to hear.” Conall’s heart stops dead in his chest, and then he’s moving mechanically past Gervais and out of the house, where a redheaded man who looks to be in his mid thirties stands on the other side of the BUR agents.

“Finlay,” Conall greets. He was and is part of the Kingair pack. He had hoped to never see any of them again, truly. Still, if he is here, than there is something very, very wrong.

“Lord Maccon.”

“Walk with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What ails you?” he asks when they have gone some distance from the agents. They are all terrible gossips, and he mustn’t give them more than necessary.

“It is… well… Professor Randolph Lyall left the manor to post a letter, and he hasn’t been back since. We combed through the town and the road between and most of Scotland, but he isn’t anywhere to be found. Sighead thought maybe he had gone home, so she sent me to retrieve him, but I stopped off at your dwelling, and I didn’t smell him.”

“How long?”

“Twenty seven days, sir.”

“Ah,” Conall says, and his gut is twisting. Randolph Lyall is missing, and he is no where to be found. All scent trails have disappeared, if he’s been gone for nearly a month.

“How much of that time was spent resenting that he might need to be looked for at all?” Finlay looks away, uncomfortable.

“I know not, sir. Sighead ordered a search when the sun had set after the third day.” But that is not what Conall asked, and he has his answer: a lot of time.

“Go and tell your alpha that Professor Lyall has not returned here, nor has anyone seen him, and that we will search London, to see if he might be about,” he dismisses, and Finlay scurries before he’s forced to say anything he does not wish to say.

Conall was and is a scary man, alpha hood aside.


	5. Airship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can't find Professor Lyall, and you can't seem to stop getting visits.

No one, not one person or ghost or even vampire, has seen Professor Randolph Lyall.  Not in all of London. His scent is no where, and no inns have been putting up strange, singular men. This is worrying. Lyall is not in Scotland, and he has not taken up residence somewhere in London, further pointing to abduction.

It is, unfortunately, one of many worries.

Wednesday, two weeks after the last robber/murder in the chain, two weeks after he learned of Professor Lyall’s disappearance, all Conall Maccon has managed to learn about the crimes is that an eight pointed star sometimes means Chaos, the man who died was Ronald White and he was on his way to being a dean at his college and was currently living off of his handful of business ventures, plus his teaching position. The attacks don’t yield much information themselves. All he’s managed to learn about Lyall is that he never made it to London, regardless of the circumstances. All he has managed to learn about Alexia’s attackers is that they are persistent, and good at not getting caught. 

He is feeling patently useless, and rightfully so.

He and Gervais again survey a ransacked building, this time one of the most popular gentlemen's clubs, Alpine. It is closed to the public for cleaning tonight. The club, normally so lively with at least a few of Akeldama’s drones moving through it, looking for trouble, is now empty and a little barren with the still atmosphere. It is a nice club, all done up in champagne and burgundy.

Conall and Gervais make their way down to the basement, where the offices are. Private rooms take up the upper floors. There are three offices in the basement, one of which is the owner’s, George Langley, and the other two belonging to his nephew, Thomas Langley, and the nephew’s close friend, Bartholomew Smith. It is in this last office that the safe has been broken into, a Chaos Star left painted on the wall, and nothing else touched. 

Whoever was here knew exactly what they were about. Conall does not say this out loud, only puts Bartholomew on the list of people to investigate. He glances at the star, this time painted in white. It seems like whatever is happening here is much bigger than a few robberies and murder-by-poison.

 

…

 

_ He’s here every day now, watching with the scientists while you slaughter more of their subjects, taunting you while you are in a cell only five feet tall. He never lets up, never goes away. _

_ “You are pathetic,” he says to you this time, and you are too exhausted to turn around. You just squeeze tighter to the back wall, the short chain that keeps you there clinking slightly. “Answer me, Randolph.” _

_ “Go away.” _

_ “Why? I am all you have in this godforsaken place. Do you even know where you are?” He asks, and he is very calm now, enjoying how the answer to that is no. _

_ “You do not know what it means when the floor sometimes vibrates and the walls and floors and ceilings are all metal?” You know, you were just too tired to think about it. _

_ “Airship. Utilitarian.” _

_ “Yes. Where do airships like this go, you slow man?” _

_ “They make transcontinental trips. Mostly to Africa an India, sometimes to the continent. They carry supplies. Can’t carry werewolves…” _

_ “But you are on one.” _

_ “They are injecting me with something. It makes it hard to shift. I can only do my hands. Sometimes my feet.” Your feet are bare. You hardly wear anything these days- just a pair of loose trousers they gave you after the rest of your clothes had grown too worn down to bother putting back on after the first few fights. _

_ These ones are better, and they repair better, too. _

_ “You are pathetic,” Vulkasin says again, laughing at Lyall’s thoughts. Of course he is. Lyall never thought anything Vulkasin found important. _

_ “I am,” Lyall says, too tired and worn out to argue. _

_ “Why did you ever say yes? Did you finally get jealous of the attention I was giving others?” _

_ “You killed that girl.” _

_ “Hmm… what girl?” Vulkasin says, as though he doesn’t know. _

_ “The whore. You promised her a lot of money to let you have your way, and you pushed her so hard I was obliged to get her into a hospital, and she died there.” _

_ “She enjoyed it.” _

_ “She cried, when I asked about it. You hurt her so badly she wanted to die, and her injuries were enough to do it.” _

_ “What did you tell the hospital?” _

_ “That she had gotten in the way of a loner, and that I had been following that loner, and so I was feeling a bit guilty. They bought it well enough.” _

_ “Where did you bury her?” _

_ “One of the lower class cemeteries, so that whoever wanted to come see her could.” _

_ “You are so very generous. Is she why, then?” _

_ “Yes. No. I don’t want to tell you.” _

_ “Why does it matter? I am the only one who ever listens to you.” _

_ “You don’t listen. You just call me weak.” _

_ “You are weak, to be swayed by the troubles of a common whore. So much so that you were willing to take even more of what I had to give you.” Vulkasin was violent before the woman died, but after, you hardly denied him at all. Not if it took other members of the pack being his main focus. Not if he killed another one. You knew what he was capable of taking. You think you would have been okay, really, if it hadn’t been for Alessandro. _

_ “If your fool lover had not thought to kill me, you would not be here. But you were weak, and he was weak, and you both got what you deserved.” _

_ “Go to hell.” _

_ “It is so much more fun to be here, turning this place into one, than it is to actually be elsewhere. Tell me, how’s that alpha of yours? Does he ever remind you of me when he’s angry? Do you think he’ll do the same things?” _

_ “Yes. No. I don’t know. He intends to hand the pack leadership off to Biffy when he’s too old and move with Alexia inside the Godbreaker Plague.” _

_ “And you think a mad Alpha will do anything he promises?” _

_ “I think he will stop before it goes too far. Before someone has to do something.” _

_ “And that would be you again? Tell me, what grand plan would you come up with this time? Would you poison him? Enlist the help of his wife? Maybe bring the Alpha bitch who rules over Kingair now to help out?” _

_ “Enough.” _

_ “Of course, she’s made a little pup out of you, hasn’t she? Cowed you into submission. Maybe she will cow your Alpha. Or maybe it won’t work and you will have to lure Alexia away from Conall, so you can fuck him enough to get him distracted and then-” _

_ “I SAID ENOUGH!” You roar at him, and try to shift, but all you succeed in doing is growing werewolf teeth. There is silence. Vulkasin is gone. You lay your head back down and cling to the idea that Conall would never, ever push things that far. He could not go through all that again. He could not show Biffy anything like what made him act last time. _


	6. Unexpected Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a rather rude caller, and you escape.

Alexia Maccon is just a bit irritated. Between Lyall’s disappearance, Conall’s preoccupation with what is being called the Chaos Star Crimes, Biffy’s increasing worry over his lover’s disappearance, the approaching full moon, and a lack of response from Genevieve Lefoux, the pack is in a high state of tension, and it is spreading.

First it goes to Akeldama, who is, despite being completely (according to him and his appearances) over Biffy, does not like to see his former drone and future equal in such distress. He puts every ear he can tap to the ground, and still can’t come up with anything, which well and truly irritates him. He does not like being as clueless as those who ask him for information.

As everyone knows, the moods of Akeldama affect those of his drones, and it takes no time for the tenseness in the werewolf part of Prudence’s home to spread to the vampire part. The girl, now seven years old, is currently without escape. She doesn’t remember much of Randolph Lyall, except that he is quite calm and entirely forgettable. In any case, all she ever hears about is how he’s gone and the phrase “poor Biffy”. What the drone-turned-werewolf has to do with Lyall that would make him more poorly than anyone else she does not know.

Either way, the atmosphere in the joint houses upset her greatly as well, and she turns capricious and flighty. As neither Conall nor Akeldama can touch her after the sun goes down in order to keep her human and, therefore, more controllable, that becomes largely the problem of Alexia and the drones.

Since the drones don’t follow as well in Lord Maccon’s part of the household, and her mother is preoccupied, it takes the work of a moment for Prudence to be outside. At this point, she has maybe seen the alleyway with laundry drying on lines a few times, but she likes it out here. It is quiet, with only servants who will not challenge her to keep her company, though they may report her whereabouts.

It is understandable then, that she did not expect someone else to already be in the alleyway. A lanky lad, almost of age, and dressed to the height of style, is just watching Prudence. He gives her a crooked, roguish smile and approaches her.

“Tell me, miss…?”

“Prudence,” she says, a little worried now. Most who approach her don’t mean her any good will.

“Ah. Hello Prudence. I am Quesnel Lefoux, and I was wondering if your mother happens to be in.”

 

…

 

_ You are trying to remember all the useful things you have learned. They don’t want you dead now, you know, because if they did you would not be alive right now. Rather, they want to see how much you can take. You have been here a month or so, now, and you have proven yourself a good subject to continue testing. _

_ You are on an airship, likely a modified cargo version, and you are near the engine, because you can feel the floors vibrating. You believe you have landed at some point, because the background hum of the ship’s piping had quieted for some time before picking up again, louder than before, and once again getting quiet. _

_ You are fairly certain the airship is under attack. You heard explosions. There is no guard at the end of your hallway; he has gone to join the rest. You know that, if you could shift now, you would be alright. You have many more scars than you did a month ago. There is stitching and bandages on both arms and your chest. You know you’ll tear those stitches, but it has been a bit since your last dose of whatever they put in you, and you now that the time is now.  _

_ You start with the feeling in your hands, and urge it up your arms. The pain is slow growing like a cramp, but you manage to urge it to your chest. You have to get your neck free. You do that, and you can do whatever else you have to. You think, very hard, about what you need to happen, and then push. The bandages slide free. The stitches tear. You keep moving. _

_ The cramp has grown dark and blinding, and you can smell your own blood, but at the end of it all, you have shifted from the waist up. It is enough. Your wolf form is skinnier, and more streamlined, than your human form. You wriggle your way out of the collar. The manacles on your wrists slid off after you shifted.. They didn’t bother with the ankles this time.  _

_ The door to your cage is locked, but you can reach the latch the chain was never long enough to reach. A little maneuvering, and you are free. You run towards what you think is the outside. _

_ You have been marched through these hallways, and sometimes carried, as well, and you know what you are doing now. Through hallways only barely familiar, you flee, hands shaking, heart pumping with the idea of being free again. You know not how long you’ve been here, but you cannot wait to have access to enough resources to find out. Suddenly, you hit a wall with no doors. No rooms. The outer shell. You have to stop and wait for a moment, silent. You can see far along the wide hallway, along guns in their casings. Normally, the weaponry itself is not visible, but it is not the case now. Men are stationed behind each, yelling back and forth to each other, ascertaining themselves of things. You think you can tell who is their leader. He has olive skin, and a bushy handlebar mustache and full beard.  _

_ You have seen him before.  _

_ Made eye contact with him before.  _

_ You want him dead. _

_ On his hips and thighs are strapped a total of four pistols. You are sure he is more armed than that. He shouts out about here “they” come. You wait, sure of your plan, now. _

_ The semi automatic firepower has been raised, the noses thrust through oblong openings to allow for greater range, and each of them fires off  short burst of bullets. Through the holes, you can see that another airship, this one marked with a symbol on the hull. Below that: endless water that shines red and gold and navy in the setting sun. they begin to fire, goggles and caps pulled on securely. _

_ You move quietly, unnoticed by the occupied gunman. The man- you think he might be a captain, is faced the other way. He’s a sharp one, though. He whips around, pistol already gone. You burn in your thigh, but it’s distant. It’s buried. He fires again, and misses. With the noise of guns, it is almost like a silent play. A third shot hits you in the shoulder, but it is still not enough to stop you from biting clean through the fabric of his coat and cravat and relieving him of his windpipe. _

_ Then you are gone, towards the end of the hallway. _

_ If you can get there,you can get home, you tell yourself, and you don’t know if it is at all true, but you know you must believe it, so that maybe it might just happen. You move along and along and along until you reach an end to the outer corridor They reload their guns twice, but with their ear muffs and goggles on, they don’t even flinch. They know their jobs. They do them. They don’t look up. The iron door in front of you reads, in bold block letters: PILOT ROOM. You twist the handle, hold your breath, and push inside. _

_ It is manned by one of your captors. You’ve never seen him before. You know not who he is. He turns, pistol half raised, but you are faster. Meaner. Vicious. _

_ “Weaker,” says Vulkasin where he leans against the central panel. You knock out the pilot in one go and search him. He has a two guns- the pistol and a revolver, and an eight inch blade that hides in the handle when not in use. From there, you stand on his chair in the cramped little cabin and twist off a heavy cap in the roof. You almost fall twice, but you make it. From there, you climb out onto the top of the pilot’s cabin, and, to your utter relief, into open air. _

_ You can see now that the ship you noticed earlier is making a circuit around The Zeus (your ship, and it is a Zeus indeed, full of men who think themselves better than the rest, but are often worse). When it draws near the pilot’s cabin, you jump, and hope like hell they don’t kill you for it. _


	7. The Birth of a New Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new problem is born. Duh.

“Quesnel Lefoux,” says Prudence’s mother, who has the ability to look both annoyed and happy, “I assume you have good reasons for loitering in an alleyway, of all things?”

“Mum once said that Countess Nadasdy was there right after she caused her to swarm, so I wanted to see it myself.” Alexia seems to seriously gage the legitimacy of the explanation, and then:

“That is fair enough, I suppose. What, pray tell, are you doing so far from both your mother and your hive?” Here, Quesnel’s mischievous, bright expression shutters off.

“Mother is missing.”

“Is she?” and isn’t that convenient? First Lyall, then Lefoux. The next name on the list will be the damn dewan, if this keeps up.

“Aye. She was here, then one night she wasn’t, and we don’t know what happened to her. Countess looked for her, of course, but she seems to have disappeared during the day.”

“How interesting. When did this happen?”

“Four nights ago. I… I snuck out this morning, and I need to get settled within the hour, because the countess doesn’t like me wandering, and I’ve really done it this time, I suppose.”

“I wonder then, why the Countess did not report this.”

“I… I don’t know. She is as many vampires are- highly cagey.”

“Quite right, my dear. For now, I suppose there is no harm in getting you a cup of tea and something to eat. You can amuse Prudence while I hunt down her father.”

“I want to help.”

“The sun is down. The vampires are up. It is time to keep you away, my dear, lest your flight come to a premature end.” Quesnel looks like he wants to argue, and then: 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“And Prudence? Stay out of the alleyway. You are going to get yourself hurt.” Prudence nods solemnly. The alleyway is creepy anyways.

Prudence’s father is equally irked and curious at the thought of Genevieve Lefoux missing. It is too coincidental. With Genevieve just months away from finishing the time she is required to remain with the hive, her disappearance is just too good to be an accident. Ah well. He’d been meaning to find a way to put pressure on the Woolsey Hive anyways. 

 

…

 

Soon enough, an official letter is addressed and sent to Woolsey, inquiring after the state of the wayward inventor and informing the hive of Quesnel’s… detention in London. The teen, all gangly limbs and impish humor, seems to get a kick out of Prudence. The two have been left to their devices in a little side parlor of Lord Akeldama’s part of the household.

The next day, Conall Maccon steps out of the BUR official carriage and onto the scene of another robbery. They are starting to blend together, really. Aside from that one corpse, it is all just missing things. Today’s victim, Doctor Elliot Bram, is in his late fifties, but has somehow managed to upkeep the appearance of a man in his late twenties, or early thirties.

“What time would you say you were robbed, doctor?” Conall asks as he peruses the well-to-do flat. The man has one maid who keeps things clean, and is quite… voracious in a physical sense, judging by the scents Conall is picking up from in and around the man’s bedroom. 

“Maybe three, four in the afternoon,” the doctor says, hands clasped in front of him. He doesn’t seem to be disturbed by having his flat robbed, but he does appear to be tense at Conall’s presence. Odd. Interesting. It’s a lead.

The maid has not been by in some time; two days worth of dirty plates and cups are scattered about the kitchen and livingroom. The dining room table, small though it is, is almost completely covered with papers and opened files. 

The smell of engine oil and metal stands out in this flat of paper and wood. He wanders over to the table on a whim, as it looks like whoever was here went through the Doctor’s records and books. Yet… nothing is moved. He moves aside a patient’s file and a book on the anatomy of the wrists and ankles and finds, under these things, a slip of paper.

On it, written in handwriting that is definitely not Doctor Bram’s, is a small letter, unsealed. He opens it up and pulls it out.

“What have you got there?” the doctor queries. Conall does not acknowledge him, though, only flipping open the small piece of paper.

 

_ Sorry about the mess, my Lord. In any case, have you ever met a doctor who specializes in the supernatural? _

 

_ -Basil _

 

Conall folds the paper back up and slides it into the envelope before turning around to where Gervais has come out of the bedroom, where the safe is located, and where Doctor Bram is standing there, nervous but not shaken. Like he knows exactly what is going on.

“Nothing, Doctor, that I can see. Gervais?”

“What did you have in your safe, doctor, other than your pistol and your money?” These things Doctor Bram readily admitted to when questioned about the contents upon the Alpha’s arrival. Gervais must have stumbled upon something good, if he is doubting the doctor’s honesty. Or maybe he’s just reading Conall.

“There may have been a record or two in there, but I doubt it.” What man does not know the full contents of a safe? Why do all these houses that get robbed have safes? What does it matter that there was a record in there? Conall does not voice any of these questions.

“Ah, well, I believe that is indeed what is gone, and that we should look for it, if you kept it separate from your other papers.”

“Yes, yes, good,” the doctor says, and Conall thinks maybe he’s too nervous about the prospect of having important documents found. This “Basil’s” words keep floating back through Conall’s head. What doctor would specialize in the supernatural? Other werewolves and vampires.There would be no human doctor that would trained specifically to stitch a wolf up when he’s been hit by a silver bullet. 

Conall is suspicious, now. His face doesn’t move as he reclassifies the doctor as under investigation, rather than as a victim. The note in his pocket is burning a hole in his mind. The doctor is hiding something, and thief wrote to Conall Maccon. 

 

...

 

Alexia sits at the table of the latest Shadow Council meeting, hands clasped demurely in her lap. Her werewolf retinue keep the palace guards company. Her face and body language are equally impassive; there will be no accidental clues to be read in the set of her shoulders tonight.

The dewan is, again, pacing. He looks abnormally scruffy. They haven’t even started the meeting. Alexia takes out her little crystal and flicks the tuning forks on it.

“Well, if we are all here, let us begin.” The Dewan takes a seat, looking like he would rather begin and end the meeting by standing up, the better to glare down imperiously at both Alexia and the frilly, over dressed and too-much potentate.

“My  _ dear _ , if you continue to look like a  _ caged animal _ , I might have to have one of my lads take you _ for a walk _ ,” Akeldama drawls out, one perfect blond eyebrow arching. If the Dewan was young enough to color, he would have. Alexia hardly spares Akeldama a glance.

“Rude,” she notes. Akeldama smirks. 

“Between you being a statue and him being… _frenetic_ _defined_ my dear, I have nothing to do but be _rude_.”

“Right, well, let us get to business. This is already ridiculous and we have yet to start,” Alexia says, a little shorter today than she would normally be. Though the whole attack-by-carriage has slowed down somewhat now that she’s got a werewolf with her everywhere she goes, it still has her on edge because she has a werewolf with her everywhere she goes.

“Tell me about the attacks, my dear. Whatever do they want you for?”

“I do not know. Between the loners going missing and the utter facelessness of this latest criminal of ours, it is starting to look a lot like the Hypocras club.” Lord Akeldama smirks again. It seems to be his expression of the evening. How annoying.

“What is the plan, though?” The dewan demands. Alexia shrugs one shoulder.

“We wait until they attack again, and fight them better until we get somewhere.”

“Well that is hardly a good plan. No lady of any breeding should put themselves in danger-” Alexia cocks one dark eyebrow.

“Sir, I assure you I am well aware of the danger, but at present I am the only attraction. I will be doing what I normally do, and you will mind your manners,” Alexia says. Tonight, she’s feeling particularly testy and autocratic.

“My lady-”

“Best listen, my _ meadow of wild poppies. _ The lads have taken to calling her  _ Cassandra _ ,” Lord Akeldama says with yet another smirk.

“Very well, but stop with the pet names. What about those robberies?”

“Conall has yet to make headway. At present, our options are to wait, wait, and wait.”


	8. Aboard The Atlas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You escape.

_ You didn’t make it onto the ship. Well you did, but just barely, and only for a moment. Your feet slip on the wet deck (you realize the liquid is too dark to be water) and you fall all the way down into the waves. You cannot hold form, so before you hit the water, you are human again. It stings, and it hurts to land, but it doesn’t stop you from moving your good arm and leg to stay afloat.  _

_ Above you, the ships exchange fire and men. You see that they are blasting something in through the holes in the sides of the Zeus, and that the grapeshot fired creates small explosions against the hull.Other than that, you cannot see much, and just work on staying awake in water so cold it tempts you to sleep forever.  _

_ Eventually, the sounds of ammunition grow farther away, and you look up again to see the Zeus beating a retreat towards the horizon and what looks like storm clouds. You hope they get struck by lightning. The other ship- the one you tried to jump on, is circling back. You pray to all that is both holy and unholy that they mean no harm.  _

_ You see heads wink in and out of view high above you, and for a moment, you think they will leave you. Your vision is going blurry. You think they just might, if you cannot even see properly. Then, a hatch opens near the bottom of the pointed hull, and something falls from the top all the way down to the bottom. It is a ladder. You reach out to grip it, but there is poison is in your veins, the adrenaline is beginning to wear off, and you are near frozen. _

_ They begin to yell, and suddenly someone launches themselves over the side of the hatch. They don’t hardly touch the ladder at all, except to catch themselves a few meters above you. _

_ “My hand!” the stranger barks as they scale the last several feet. You stretch up a second, then third time and catch it, and it is only as that person pulls you close and begins the ascent that you realize that your blood has attracted sharks, and that you were nearly a dead man, fource over this day.  _

_ You grip strong, broad shoulders as the ladder begins to crank up. _

_ “Easy, old boy. We’ve got you now.” You don’t know if this voice is a man or a woman’s. Other hands grip you, and you scream when they dig into an injury. They readjust, and pull you to safety. _

_ “Armand, get him to the medical bay,” says the one who jumped out of the ship, “and fetch Willow, Cecily.” The people, who you still cannot make out much of, disappear, and you are transferred to the arms of this “Armand” fellow. _

_ Once in the medical bay, they take all of your clothes away, and work to get you as dry as possible. When they have done that, they move you near a fire and toss a towel over your lap for modesty. _

_ “They got ‘im good, didn’t they?” says a higher voice than what you have heard before.  _

_ “Doubtlessly, my dear. Come on now, hot water and more towels, and no more talking. We have a man courting death here.” Another arrives then, this one’s footsteps a brisk staccato in comparison to the dull thuds most of these people make. You think this one may be wearing heels. _

_ “Talk to me, Zane.” _

_ “Shot in the shoulder and the thigh, had a dip in the water, and broke the stitches on his stomach and arms. All in all, I’ve seen worse, but not many.” Two faces blink into view. _

_ “Sit him up, Armand.” Hands all clad in leather raise him carefully off the cold, metal table, and the two blurry faces come a bit more into view. One of them offers you something in a flask. You shake your head; you are not thirsty. They make you drink it anyways. _

_ “It will help, lad. Needn’t fight it, now.” They tip the metal object up, and though the taste is entirely too sweet, you drink it down anyways. _

_ “How are we?” says the second. This one is much more beautiful than the first. You think the first jumped out of the ship.  _

_ “Got one in him. Those silver?” _

_ “Looks like it. Alright, sir, I have to cut these out of you, yeah? I need you to fight the shift if it pushes at you.” You nod. You can do that. _

_ “Get another in him.” You are given a second flask. You don’t hesitate.  _

_ “Cecily. Flush the cuts. Armand, Zane. Hold him down.” the beautiful one begins with the injury in you shoulder, and you grit your teeth and try not to hurt someone. Your other arm hurts as the wounds are flushed and cleaned. The beautiful woman- a blonde with soft, blue eyes- extracts from your shoulder bits of bone matter with tweezers before she can properly grip and remove a little silver ball. _

_ “Good job, my dear. One more, and by then you should have begun to regain your strength.” She moves to your leg, and it is harder to keep still this time. The wound is deeper. It is more painful. She has to go past more muscle to get to it. _

_ Eventually though, she does. She pats your bare thigh, below where she worked, and you have begun to feel better already. _

_ “Good lad. You’re all done now. Just got to wrap you up and give you another drink. They do just that, and then together they move him to a bed and cover him up, hair long dried into a mess of tangles. _

_ “Someone will have to help him with that,” Armand (you think) notes. _

_ “Yes, but it won’t be tonight. Let the man rest,” The beautiful one orders. They do just that, and you drift off on a haze of distressing, but far-away thoughts. In the doorway, Vulkasin leans, arms crossed over his chest, an utterly disgusted look on his face. You wonder if he will ever forgive you. _

 

_ … _

 

_ You wake up hours later, and they are not near you now. Slowly, your eyes open, and you realize you can hear and smell more than before. You feel almost inhuman again. After a few minutes, people approach. The door to the medical bay opens, and a woman with black hair and a hook nose leans into your view. It's the one who jumped out of the ship. _

_ “Good morning, my dear. My name is Captain Coriander Zane. This is Doctor Willow Breakley, and you are aboard the Atlas. _

_ “Professor Randolph Lyall. It is a pleasure to meet you.” You offer your hand. Zane takes it. Narrow purple eyes twinkle, and you think you have just been approved of. _


	9. Who Murdered In the First?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More people are dying. You begin to get used to your new life.

In an effort to think a little more clearly, Conall Maccon has begun to clean. Not clean very well, of course, but he slides metal rolls back into their allotted boxes, papers back into their allotted files, and all of those things back into their current homes in the cabinets along unoccupied space against the walls. He calls a maid and hands her the dirty plates that have built up, and then she comes back to get the cups. Extra clothing is hung up in the small closet kept for that reason, and only a few sets of coats and hats and scarves are left on the rack.

Lyall’s desk remains untouched.

The cleaning doesn’t get Lord Maccon anywhere but less messy, and he sighs, leaning against his desk, trying to think. What thief writes to the one who would have them arrested and tried? What thief turns murderer and still leaves their mark? What could this Basil fellow possibly have to gain from all this? 

Conall begins to pace, head going round and round. He wonders if maybe the attacks on Alexia have to do with the robbery/murder streak this Basil has going on. A  knock on his door interrupts him.

“Come in!” he calls. Gervais twists the handle, slides quickly inside, and shuts it behind him.

“My lord, Bartholomew Smith has been murdered.”

 

…

 

The house of Mister Smith is befitting of a bachelor and the co-owner of an upscale gentlemen’s club. It also smells like death and unfortunance. 

“Do we know what who did him in?” Conall leans over the corpse, who died sitting at the small table, full cup of tea long gone cold on its saucer. On one side of his head, a perfect, slightly messy hole is hidden by his shock of thick, brown hair. On the other side, the one that Conall is most definitely not standing on, blood, bone, and brain matter is spread across the floor. 

Conall glances at the tea again, at the small kitchen. At the gaslights that have been on for far too long. Bartholomew Smith is a handsome man. Conall thinks that he must not have had a problem with the ladies. He can smell the proof of that wafting from the bedroom. He’s met many a deadly woman in his day. Maybe Mr. Smith took one home with him. 

He wanders into the bedroom again. With his back to the door, Lord Maccon closes his eyes and just breathes, picking up the scent of metal, old food, old canoodling, blood, and ablutions. The blood could be from anything, but he’s betting it has to do with the body. Given that it is coming from under the bed, it is suspicious. He kneels and flips back the bedcovers. He sees a wooden box, and thinks that maybe there is a gun in there.

It isn’t a gun. It isn’t even a knife. A pair of manacles, roughly an inch and half wide, lay on the silk lined bottom. In addition to that, a reel of fabric, a gag, a small, ornate looking knife (this is where the blood is coming from; it was not cleaned before being stored), a length of chain, and a blindfold lay neatly packed into the box. Conall finds himself glad that it is Gervais waiting to see what the alpha has found, and not Lyall. 

“What did you find?” says his assistant. Conall stands up with the box and turns towards the other man.

“Huh,” Gervais says, head cocked to the side. The box has thrown him for a loop. Distantly, Conall recalls that he is not the sort of fellow to approve of the box’s contents.

“Did you find anything else on the body?”

“This.” Gervais offers up a letter, already opened. In that same handwriting:

 

Evidently, I am not the only one who abhors loose ends. There are still many left to find, though, if only you knew where to look. 

 

-Basil S.

 

“Cheeky bastard, isn’t he?”

“Yes. It’s odd, truly, how a murderer and a thief could taunt the one meant to catch him.

“Well he seems set on implying the involvement of other parties.” 

“Maybe he’s trying to throw us off the scent. Without an actual scent to go on- from anyone- it would be fairly easy to confuse everyone by implying a second party.” Conall sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyebrows drawing together. 

No scent.

No face.

He’s fairly sure the name is false. 

“Blast.”

“True enough, my Lord.” Frustration curls in Lord Maccons breast, thick fingers drumming against his pant leg, eyes getting restless. He can look all he likes, but there’s nothing to find. Whoever did this was a professional. 

 

…

 

_ You have a better existence now, you think. They let you out of bed a few days ago, and they’ve gotten you clothes that mostly fit. They do not have to be exact, you know. Loose fitting, and mostly made of leather and canvas and dark brown cotton, these clothes are made more for functionality than style, though they do include a waistcoat and a black cravat with a pin in the shape of an eight pointed star. _

_ They’ve assigned you a tutor of sorts- a giant man with tattoos covering his entire torso. The two of you bunk together, you in the top and him in the bottom in twin hammocks that don’t disturb you too much when the ship changes directions. He doesn’t seem to mind that you wake up at all hours, body all covered in sweat, blankets cloying.  _

_ He doesn’t mind that you stumble out of bed, usually half delirious with whatever you were seeing. He also doesn’t seem to mind that you have forgone wearing much at all to bed. It just ruins your clothes that much quicker, and makes them stink of sweat besides. Sometimes he pulls you to sleep in his bed. Another heartbeat keeps the dreams away for longer. _

_ He explains things to you, and during the night, takes you to where he works, and you learn the ship’s engine, and how it runs. How to take care of it, and how to feed it. It’s a beautiful piece of work. He tells you he designed and built it. With him next to you, the cannons with grapeshot so similar to what was once fired at the Atlas become familiar.  _

_ When he is done- and this is earlier and earlier in the night as you learn his trade- he leaves you with a woman, thick in the body with short, curling hair, who shows you the ships weapons. You learn to take care of them as well. This is more familiar to you. _

_ In the early morning, after dinner, there’s a boxing ring, with the other crew members. The rules change from gauntlet to gauntlet. Weapons to no weapons, shifting, to no shifting. No one seems to mind that you have the marks from your manacles on your ankles, neck, and wrists. Or your various other scars, though they certainly try and examine them. This is the most familiar to you. _

_ By the end of the day, you are tired, and its easier to sleep. It’s becoming less so as you learn the rhythm and flow. You find you like it more than a man of your standing ought. You know it ought to be shameful when the best part is right after you have calmed down after waking up in the day, when the man with the tattoos will sometimes run his thick fingers down your back, coaxing out all the energy from you, and you wake up in his bed when it is next time to work. _


	10. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conall almost finds what he's looking for. You recall why you were where you got kidnapped.

 

The day Conall almost catches a glance of the murderer, he is investigating another corpse. The body had been in rigor mortis for hours, all the blood bruising the front where it is laid out on the bed. As he walks around it, looking at the face of a twenty something dandy, he hears a creak on the stairs. 

As Gervais talks aloud, noting things in about the corpse, Conall signals him to keep going as he moves quietly towards the stairs to the attic, or maybe the roof, depending. He hasn’t been this way. Another creak, and whoever is there gives up the ghost, flat out darting upwards. Conall follows him, and the two burst out on the boarding house’s flat roof.

The figure- Basil, whomever that may be- tugs down washing as he runs between the blowing sheets, and Conall follows him, weaving to avoid the fabric. The man leaps the sizable gap between this house and the sloping roof of the next, and Conall follows him, noting that the distance would imply the fellow’s supernatural status. He spares a thought to wonder if Lyall would have figured it out now before he shakes his head. There’s no sense in wondering; besides, he still rather wants to kill him.

The man takes the current path as far as he can. He tries to escape by leaping over roofs and changing directions frequently until Conall takes up the change midshift.

“Shit,” says the man as he looks back to check his progress. He’s not going to outrun Conall. Not on foot. He needs a smaller playing field. Thankfully, he knows exactly where he is. The next gap in the roofs is not one he leaps over, but slides down. The alleyways here do not allow a woman in full dress to pass through without scraping themselves against the walls, and Conall is larger than that. The man, though, has accustomed himself to moving sideways.

He navigates the maze like a rat that’s run this race many times until he’s out of the slums and their close knit buildings and in the warehouse district. He keeps to back alleys. A little farther, and he’ll need to go up again, but for now he’s safe. It licks that he has not heard the footsteps of a man or a werewolf behind him, and he grins in the second before his shoulder is grabbed, and he is pushed against a wall.

He sees stars for a moment before the damage heals and Conall stares at him with a snarl on his face. The man tilts his head up a bit and then:

“Well, you look highly displeased to see me.” The familiar voice freezes Conall for a fraction of an instant, and Lyall- for it is Lyall, in the flesh and smelling like nothing, that has been leading Conall on a merry chase- twists out of his grip, skips backwards a step and, with a jerk of his masked face, keeps running. 

Conall follows. 

 

…

 

_ You are just a month from the english coast, now, and you are not sure you want to go back. You stare out at the endless ocean, nothing and no one in sight. Your duties are done, and you have two hours before supper time. The man with the tattoos- Rowan, he calls himself- comes up behind you.  _

_ “You are worried. Who have you left behind?” Rowan asks. This side of the ship is cool with the sun setting behind them, in the West. _

_ “An alpha I will be serving in the future, to start. My home, to finish.” _

_ “Scotland was not your home?” Rowan questions, catching on to what you are not saying. _

_ “I… Scotland was penance.” _

_ “What did you do to be exiled to Scotland?” You shrug. _

_ “My alpha was mad, and it became apparent that no one was going to address that.” _

_ “So you did.” _

_ “Yes,” you say, though you can barely squeeze the words past your lips. _

_ “Is that who you see, when you are dreaming?” _

_ “Sometimes, if I’m especially tired, he leans against the wall, telling me about how I will inevitably cock this up, too.” Rowan shifts a little closer, so that their shoulders are touching. As usual, he wears his shirt unbuttoned enough to see his curly chest hair. The leather of his waistcoat gleams more dully than the cooling sweat in the hollow of his thick throat. _

_ “He says more than that, I wager.” You look at him. Rowan shrugs. _

_ “I hear you, at day. After the dream is over, sometimes you tell him to shut up. Sometimes you say you will if you want to. Mostly you just tell him to go away.” _

_ “He talks about the things he did like they were accomplishments; as though it’s some sort of guarantee of his greatness that-” you choke on the words. All these years, and it takes a near act of god to get the words out around the ball of shame in your throat. Rowan does not make you speak further. Instead, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close. _

_ “We will make landfall, and then we will burn them out before they can do these things to more people.” You nod and turn your gaze to the quickly appearing stars. _

_ “It may be best to involve those who are already there.” _

_ “In London?” _

_ “Do you know how my old alpha died?” _

_ “No.” _

_ “A scottish alpha had needed to make an appearance- it was supposedly some show of fealty- in any case, there was one coming, and I knew about it for months beforehand. My…” he was not yours; had not been your alpha for years before he died, “Woolsey was angry and anxious about it. The Scotsman was rumored to be powerful. Maybe even more powerful than Woolsey. If he was looking to gain a better political hold, the Woolsey pack was the place to try for. _

_ “In any case, I knew that it Woolsey was letting it show, then the alpha posed real danger. So I watched and waited and tried to keep him calm by doing whatever he ordered. Theft, murder, information gathering, it hardly mattered. Woolsey felt the need to shore up his political influence, and that involved a lot of blackmail and disposal. _

_ “So he arrives, and he looks good in a purple kilt and matching suit. He isn’t a young alpha- he’s got experience, and he isn’t afraid of Woolsey. I knew in that moment, that he was what I needed to save my pack. But one does not unseat a Scotsman through request; I needed a reason. His beta did not appear to be happy with the turn his life had taken. As I watched him throughout the night, I realized he was not unhappy with his post, but unhappy with the queen.  It was an opportunity I needed. _

_ “The Scottish alpha was supposed to be there for a few weeks, and given that he was prone to spending time with Woolsey, I was prone to spending time with his beta. I mirrored the other man’s irritation with all things involving the Crown. He approached me, eventually, with his own version of a plan. It was too hasty- I would never have been able to pull it off. Not without incriminating myself. Even if I wanted the queen dead, I would not have tried it. _

_ “Nevertheless, I sent him home with the assurance that I would work out a better plan and allowed that hope of a new monarch to buoy him. And then I let him drown,” You lean a little harder against Rowan, wondering if this is the last time the man would ever speak with you, now that you’ve told him your deed. But Rowan merely nods.  _

_ You wonder what you have done to deserve a man who would here you, but not become disgusted by you. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comment on this fic would be lovely. Concrit is definitely welcome.


	11. Attack-Counter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Conall is reeling, the carriage routine actually worked this time around, and Alexia's kidnappers are not the only name in town.

“It’s him,” Conall breathes. His tone sounds like a curse, and his face says just how much he wasn’t prepared for this. Alexia sits calmly, thinking.

“Well, surely he has a reason,” She says, eventually, and sips her tea. She doesn't like this at all. 

“He’s been running around murdering people. Or not? We don’t know!” Conall explains as he turns on his heal and paces the length of their sitting room once more. Alexia sighs.

“I have never seen him do anything without a purpose, husband. If he revealed himself tonight, then there is something bigger afoot than his machinations.” Conall reaches the other side of the room and turns again.

“How does he go from being kidnapped in Ireland to robbing houses and leaving strange notes here?” Conall wonders outloud. Alexia is about to tie him to a chair so he will stop moving. She shrugs her shoulders and sets down her teacup.

“Who is to say? The only thing we can do now is look at where he is pointing us: those he has robbed.”

 

…

 

Cecily had departed some days before for the English coast to see what there was to see. She comes back in a hurry now. Her hands are shaking (you did not know they could shake) and her face holds a spooked, frightened expression. She bolts for the Captain’s office.

Later, at dinner, when you sit next to Rowan, and watch Cecily. Her face is more composed now. It doesn’t escape you how close she stays to Zane. Breakley is on Cecily’s other side. They’re guarding her, you know. 

When dinner has wound down, and people are beginning to consider leaving, Zane takes one last drink of wine and sets the glass down. She crosses her hands in front of her on the table and gazes out at us. 

The room goes from subdued to dead silent in absolutely no time.

“The Network has breached England,” Zane says. A ripple of unease flows through the room. “We will need to flush them out.”

“Perhaps,” you say after a long moment’s consideration, “we could do so publicly?” Zane cocks her head.

“How do you mean?”

“London is the hub of supernatural activity, and the Network has thrived off of secrecy for a long time. They would, logically, be somewhat charitable to find such a large threat to their existence. Charitable enough to allow the only group with working knowledge of the Network to settle in London and coexist. As long as no wars are fought, it ought not be a problem,” you say. 

Zane is looking at you fully. She’s only done that a few times, and it unnerves you every time without fail. You wonder what she sees.

“I do not suppose you could come up with a full plan?” You nod your head.

“I will.”

 

…

 

The ship is still a month from the coast when you take flight and land on a quiet, foggy night. Armand is with you. The two of you make your way to the house of an old woman. She lets you in with a disgruntled expression.

“Randolph, you heathen. You leave without saying goodbye. Then you show up at my door like a lost puppy,” the woman says. She has a thick accent, skin browned by the sun, and strong, knobby hands. 

“And what is this I heard about Vulkasin? Did you truly dispose of him?” You nod.

“Good. Rat bastard deserved to die. Personally, I would have been happier if it had been you to kill him. We all know you deserved that much,” she says with a sniff as she pulls both You and Armand inside. She pushes the two of you down into the chairs of her tiny table set up on one end of her main room and bustles away for a tea kettle.

“I wouldn’t have lived through that,” You say, a little softer than you intend. She turns to look back at you. With a bit of a sigh, she disappears through the door.

“I know that much,” her voice floats back. Armand is looking at you with a soft expression. You cock an eyebrow and it flees back behind his unruffled facade.

 

…

 

Depending on the side one takes, it is by some miracle or a build up of bad karma that has Alexia’s kidnappers finally succeeding. With Lord Maccon continually out of the townhouse and searching high and low for his missing beta, it has fallen to Alexia, Channing, and Biffy to manage the household. 

Biffy is also in a strange place, so Alexia tries not to put too much pressure on him. This is how, as she’s on her way back from her latest Shadow Council meeting, she winds up in the cab, alone but for Channing, with only the two strongest of their clavigers driving. Quite suddenly, the coach is overturned. The breaking of wood, the bend and rending of metal, the change of materials against cobblestones has Alexia momentarily stunned. 

She looks over as she fumbles with Ethel. Channing is shifting forms, trying to fight. 

A strange gas is released into the interior of the carriage, and Channing finds he can’t shift. Well. He can sure as hell still fight. He’s got a short, curved knife out, slashing at their attackers. There’s too many of them, and they’re too well trained. In no time, the two are subdued and tossed into the back of what might be another carriage.

“Channing?” Alexia asks. They slid a gross-smelling cheese-cloth sack over her head, so she can neither see nor smell. She can no longer tell if Channing is still with her or… well. There are many things he could be, so she shall just have to not think about those many other things. It might just bring on hysteria, after all.

“Channing!” Alexia hisses out. No one answers again. 

“Chan-oof!” Alexia exclaims as the hard toe of a boot smacks into her.

“Shut it, miss, or I’ll give ya a reason ta make noise, yeah?” Alexia doesn’t respond. It is half an hour later, as she’s contemplating passing out just o that she will forget she’s smelling the bag, that another thump is heard from the roof.

“Blast, they’re fast,” the cockney man who had kicked her exclaimed. Alexia hears the sound of a gun, the deafening boom of a shot discharged once, twice, thrice. The thuds of bodies taking blows fills her ears, someone steps on her, and she can do naught but pray that she doesn’t wind up with a busted anything. It was bad enough when she twisted her ankle. 


	12. Counter Nabbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they finally get the jump on Alexia. Basil has something to say about that. Channing is less than pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update days will be on friday from here on out.

It only takes one more grunt, and then the masks are being pulled off their heads, and they’re being helped up. 

“Lyall! What the deuce is going on here!?”

“Nothing of import, I can assure you,” Lyall says, quiet and dry to the last, it seems.

“Lyall. I would say I am utterly shocked,” Alexia begins as Lyall gently tugs her onto her feet and out of the carriage. There is another just behind it. Lyall’s companion is manhandling Channing after him. “But I daresay I should have predicted this one.” 

Channing is giving her an incredulous look. As he’s pushed down into the seat by a tall man with skin like an Indian and the deeply dark eyes and hair to match, his eyes flick between the two and Alexia before finally settling on the crux of the matter.

“You! You were nabbed in Scotland! How are you in London, doing the nabbing this time around?” Armand ducks out and the carriage begins to move. Lyall twitches the curtains a bit, checking their surroundings. He dims the single lantern.

“You are right, I was nabbed in Scotland. And this is a counter-nabbing. It is, at current, us or them, and them is the reason I disappeared.” Channing’s anger twitches across his face before settling in his bright blue eyes.

“I don’t believe that for a second! You have always had some… scheme or shenanigan going on that the rest of us knew nothing about! You shan’t have me dancing to your tunes this time!” In response, Lyall merely unbuttoned his sleeve at the cuff and lower arm, removed the curtain from the lantern, and held his arm up to the light.

“Look, Channing,” he says, eyeing him somewhat balefully, “I bear their marks, now. And you will too, I reckon, or you would have been shifted by now.” 

Channing shifts somewhat uncomfortably in his seat as the carriage bumps along. Alexia, having not quite so many reserves as her companion, reaches out for Lyall’s arm. He allows her to draw it closer to her. For a moment, the three sit in silence while both of Alexia’s hands wrap around Lyall’s.

“There are other marks here, too,” Alexia says to Channing. “He is not lying.”

“Perhaps not, but if you think I am just going to trust you-”

“Right. You are convinced this is some plot of mine,” Lyall says, cool to the soul and cold about the eyes. He gently removes his hand and wrist from Alexia’s clutches and rebuttons his sleeve. After he tugs his jacket back in place, he fixes Channing with his gaze. 

“Perhaps you should remember, dear Channing, that even when you were completely knowledgeable about anything I was scheming about, you did nothing. Not a single thing,” he says, and Alexia knows they are talking about Vulkasin, now, “so you may, and excuse my phrasing, take your suspicions and  _ shove _ it.” 

A rap is heard on the of the carriage. Lyall looks up for a second, then he’s eyeing Channing and Alexia. 

“Right. Congratulations, the greetings are over. Shift your legs and feel for the handle at the bottom the bench on your side, Channing. Lady Maccon,” Lyall says as he finds his own handle, “I hope you have no problem going for the head.” His tugging triggers a secret drawer underneath the bench, which opens to reveal pistols. He removes a small one and presses it into Alexia’s hand. He himself removes a larger one and a belt with a holster. 

“Channing, what the deuce are you staring for? We are about to be attacked,” Lyall snaps as he extinguishes the lantern entirely. “Lady Maccon, to my side, if you would,” Lyall directs as he kicks his drawer shut. Channing, evidently having decided to follow Lyall’s lead (this time), arms himself and kicks his own drawer shut.

In the dark, Alexia can see that Lyall is flexing his fingers.

“Just like old times, yes?” Lyall asks. 

“Shut it,” Channing hisses back.

“You always did ruin all the fun,” Lyall pokes back just as he yanks open the carriage door. The bloke who had, evidently, been about to swing feet first into the carriage, was caught guard by a lack of a door. Lyall kills him with a knife and his body hits the floor between the two werewolves. Alexia keeps her gun up and aimed. 

She may not be able to hit the broad side of a barn, but she sure as hell is close enough for that to not matter.

“Only when it was improper!” Channing gets the chance to get out before another man.

“We’re werewolves. Propriety is just a hat for us,” Lyall observes as he dispatches the second assailant through the door. 

“Just a hat? Just a hat!”

“Have you lost the ability to say anything new?” Lyall inquires as he swings himself out of the carriage and onto the roof. A shot is heard.

“Have you lost the ability to make sense?!”

“Quite the contrary!” Lyall shouts back as he ducks a punch. “And they’re jumping from the roofs!”

“Blast it!” Channing curses as he clambers out of the carriage, kicks the door shut behind him, and joins Lyall on the roof. Armand is similarly armed, with the driver ducked and under his protection.

“Must you have a lovers’ spat now?!” Armand calls back.

“‘Tis less than that!” Lyall calls back with a laugh.

“You could have fooled me!” Armand snaps as the men keep coming and they keep getting shot down. 

“Watch my back,” Lyall orders as he drops down. There’s a hidden compartment on the roof as well, and he removes a fully loaded shotgun from it. 

“Since when do you keep so many guns around!?”

“Since I started chasing down kidnappees in an armored carriage, that’s when!” Lyall answers as he starts picking people off before they jump. 

“Almost there!” Armand yells out. They’re nearing the docks. 

“Get Alexia up here. This is going to be tricky, with you stuck like you are.” Channing shakes his head but ducks down to collect his Lady. When all three of them are on the roof, Lyall switches places with Armand.

“Right, listen close, ‘cause I’ll say it once! When we hit the docks, you gotta trust me and jump where I tell you! That’s it! Just follow me. You are with me, my lady!” Armand says as the wide cobblestone streets of the warehouse district give way to the wooden docks. When Channing glances down, he sees that the driver is up, prepared to jump, and that Lyall now has the reins. 

“Get ready! Billie! Are you set?”

“Yessir!” Billy says as he climbs up beside them. More people- three or four, by Channing’s count- have joined them on the ground. They are unnaturally fast as they swarm over the wooden boards. Armand takes up Alexia with a squeak from her and…  _ wings _ unfurl from heretofore unseen slits in his coat. He’s soaring up, and up, and up. Armand and Alexia disappear into a dark hole in the sky. A hole that’s rising. A hole that is about to disappear.

The carriage begins to slow, and Billie crouches, one floppy curl coming down from his newsboy as Lyall turns the single horse quickly enough that the wheels skid and nearly catch. Then Billie is jumping, out into thin air. Before Channing can think about it, he’s following after, listening to Lyall’s shouts of “go!”

Billie catches that same hole from earlier, and hands pull him in. Seconds later, more hands pull Channing in. Last to jump is Lyall. The carriage has gone entirely out of control. With one hard push, the single catch is released, the horse is safe from any falls into the sea, and the carriage itself is careening towards the edge without the aid of the horse to keep it on board.

Lyall jumps when the wheels are no longer on solid wharf. The leap is powerful, and perfectly timed. He’s just moments away from making it when pain, sharp and poignant and all-encompassing, lances through his abdomen in four places. 

Then it gets worse as he’s pulled backwards, and his body hits the water. Guns that Lyall didn’t see before open fire on the Atlas, giving them no choice but to raise up and close the door. Quickly, before a counter attack can be mounted, Lyall is dragged out of the water, clubbed into unconsciousness, and carted away. 

The gunfire stops. 

All is silent.

Basil is lost. 


	13. Counter-Kidnap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Channing and Alexia meet the Captain of the Atlas. You are recaptured and given an examination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING FOR NON-CON. LOCATED IN THE ITALICIZED SECTION. DETAILS IN THE END NOTES

“Where’s Basil?” A deep, smooth voice demands. It’s accompanied by the steady thuds of heavy boots. 

Alexia lifts her head from where she’s been trying to get her balance to see a woman. The room they are in is shadowy and disorienting due to the amount of bodies moving around, but Alexia gets the distinct impression that this woman is very tall, and likely the leader among… whoever these people are.

“He didn’t make it,” Armand says. Alexia tries to find him in the dark. 

“Well, come on, then. We have guests, and they are likely underinformed,” says the woman.

Alexia and Channing are escorted into an office with a desk and chairs on one side, and two low couches, a chair, and a low table on the other.

“Who are you?” Channing demands as soon as they are released from the clutches of their erstwhile driver, Armand, and a blonde woman with short, waving hair. Well, Channing is released. Alexia has the sense to walk before she is dragged.

“Coriander Zane,” the woman says. She flicks a switch near the door, and electric lamps gain luminescence. “Captain of the Atlas, upon which you stand. You, as I understand it, are gamma of the London Pack and you,” Zane says with a look at Alexia, “are its second alpha.”

“You are correct in that,” Alexia says. She holds out her hand. Zane takes it and bends over it gracefully. A kiss from a soft mouth is pressed against her knuckles. Next to her, Channing continues to bristle. It is easy to see why.

Zane is, indeed, more than six feet tall. She is dressed in a fine, full-winter suit and coat, a pair of subtle earrings, and a single ring on her right middle finger. Her cravat pin is a silver eight-pointed star. The entirely black ensemble does nothing to hide the woman’s sizable chest or the broadness of her shoulders.

Single, distinctive lines of coal coast over the edges of her upper eyelids and highlight luminous, purple eyes. She is also in possession of a pointy hook nose and miles of straight, black hair pulled up to the crown of her head, then allowed to flow down, unhindered. She seems to be alive with a sort of coiled, anticipatory energy.

As Zane rises, Alexia looks her in the eye, refusing to be cowed by the sheer magnitude of the woman’s presence. Alexia is awarded with a barely there smile of approval.

“I suppose tea is in order,” Zane says. With a nod to Channing, she steps past them through the door. A language that sounds like silk flows from her mouth in a few short sentences. Then, Zane is turning to them and directing them over to the couches. 

Alexia and Channing take seats side by side, their backs to the wall. Zane sits across from them. While they wait for the tea, Alexia takes a look around. Upon closer inspection, she notices that this room seems to be a war room of some sort. 

Maps of the world over are pinned to the walls and dotted with wax. The umbrella holder has a fair few swords in it. Rectangles of metal are affixed to the walls. Given the way the carriage was outfitted, Alexia bets these fold out. Books sit in shelves with wire screens to keep them from moving. 

She can read titles like “the art of war”, and “a history of Russian supernaturals”. Alexia itches to get her hands on that. Until recently, with the Egyptian fiasco, Alexia had thought that England was the only place where their kind was welcomed.

A short knock sounds at the door. The blonde from earlier comes in with a tea tray. 

She is wearing fitted white trousers that tuck into black knee high boots. In addition to that, her shirt is white, the cravat, belt, and waistcoat black, and the short jacket is red. She, like Zane, is wearing a silver eight pointed star. Her cravat pin is plain, but the piece hangs from a necklace that lays against her breasts.

“My thanks, Cicily,” Zane says. She gives the blonde a moment of eye contact. Cicily’s eyes wander and land on Alexia.

“You have scraped yourself,” she states. Alexia looks down at her hand to see that she has, indeed scraped the backs of her knuckles. Alexia waves Cicily off.

“It is nothing.” Cicily departs with a shrug. Zane leans forward to pour the tea.

“Milk and sugar?” she inquires.

“One milk. Two sugars,” Alexia responds.

“None for me,” Channing chimes in. After the tea has been passed around, Zane sits back to appraise them both.

“I suppose I should start with the beginning of your night,” She states.

“Please,” Alexia responds.

 

…

 

You wake up cold, bare, and laying on dank, moldy smelling stone. You push yourself up, looking around. You can see nothing in the near darkness. You must have been injected again. The clink of chains alerts you to the uncomfortable, but not unbearable, press of iron against your ankles and wrists and around your neck as well.

A rumbling sound is heard, and the chains begin to tighten. They force you to draw back against the wall and stand there, legs spread, arms out wide, on your toes with your head up. You hate it. Torchlight burns your eyes, but you dare not look away.

“You had such promise, my dear,” says the voice. You have never heard him before.

“It is too bad you had to slip your leash. Now you shall have to be retrained. Not to fear, though. I have faith in your ability to adjust.” A hand reaches out from beyond the flickering flames. You try to bite.

“Well, at least the fight in you remains faithful. Muzzle him, lads, then bring him to the examination room.” a shuffle of feet, then your head is slammed back against the stone. As you try to regain your bearings, some contraption is forced over your head and settles against the lower half of your face. 

Then, your arms and legs are being pulled at, as is your neck. The collar you wear is attached to a pole. It is long enough to keep you from attacking anyone, but short enough for them to control you easily.

They march you, naked as the day you were born, brand new scars on display, down hallways and passed guards. They call out jokes to each other. They laugh and point at you, making fun of your nakedness, of your manhood. Of your muzzle. You don’t react to any of it. 

You fight when they manhandle you onto a freezing, steel table, but you lose in the end. They leave you there in a sterile, hostile room. Your gut twists in anxiety and hunger, and you are sure they can smell it on you. 

They leave you there for the longest. Then, the door opens, and the same voice enters as before. 

“Okay… Specimen 423!” you’ve never heard yourself addressed as that before, but it doesn’t surprise you in the least. You find yourself looking up into the eyes of a big, burly man. His handlebar mustache has been meticulously groomed, and his eyes are cold and critical behind his spectacles.

“It says here that you had accelerated progress before your little flight from the ship,” the man says. He fixes you with a playful, admonishing look. You say nothing. “Well, I suppose you would not, in fact, know. In any case, I will be handling all of your procedures from here on out,” the man says with a sunny smile.

“We’ll start with a physical.” The man’s eyes fall to your restraints. He sighs in annoyance. “Donnan! Rigby! Come in here and change his restraints! You know full well that experiments set for the table get the other kind!” he looks back at you and shakes his head.

“They never can follow simple procedures.” Two of the men who marched you down the hall come in. They have a canvas bag with them. They attach longer, tighter restraints to your forearms and calves, and remove the ankle and wrist shackles. 

They hold your head, which you snarl and try to bite them for, earning you a smack to the face. They force your teeth apart by gripping the hinge of your jaw until they can insert a thin, metal piece on either side of your mouth that attaches to a different harness they put over your head. 

When they are done, they depart.

“That is much better, would you not agree?” the doctor asks as he comes to stand in your line of sight again. He runs one finger over your eyebrow, and your heart drops to your knees. 

“Let us begin.” he presses two fingers against your pulse point and takes your wrist in his other hand. He pauses to do his counting, mouth moving. You try not to let your emotions play across your face. You know this sort of man. You know how this game goes. 

You keep your breathing even as he lays his ear against your chest, hand coming to rest next to his face, palm against a nipple. You begin to count backwards from one hundred. He straightens up, and kneads places on your stomach and diaphragm. It feels strange, and strangely good. Still, you don’t respond. 

You cannot respond. Not if you want to make it out of this alive. 

“Very good, Specimen 423.” He withdraws his hands briefly, before setting them again on your arms, just below your new restraints. He trails his fingers over skin, taking time to examine each new scar you have. Then he reaches your chest area.

He pauses to press his fingers into your nipples. You keep breathing through it. 

“You have low responsiveness, Specimen 423,” the doctor says. He keeps moving. Because of how you lay on the table, your back cannot help but be arched enough that the man gets his fingers against the top of your ass. You tell yourself not to panic. To just keep breathing through it. This is just like Vulkasin, only it was harder with him.

You knew him. 

You know he loved you, once. 

You know he probably loved you until the very end. 

The doctor’s hands trail lower still, over your hips. He uses both hands on each thigh and calf before he comes back up. This time, instead of his knuckles just brushing your cock, he fully grips it. You do not respond. He squeezes to hard and you wince in pain. 

“There it is. So you do feel,” the doctor says. He moves on to your balls. When you do not respond, he squeezes there, too. You give another wince. He plays with you for awhile, but when you do not respond except to pain, he lets you go. 

“Well, the good news is you are in good health,” the doctor says. “The better news is that we can pick up at a later stage then where we left off.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING DETAILS:  
> Lyall is assigned to a doctor who gives him a "physical". Part of this figure includes playing with his nipples, dick, and balls in an attempt to arouse or get some kind of reaction out of him. 
> 
> Notes: 
> 
> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)
> 
> Special Announcement 6.1.2018  
> I am setting up an Etsy shop! As soon as I get the final edits to my drawings done, you will be able to buy them, including the picture of Hela from the “Enough” series!


	14. Procedure No. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zane and Conall have a conversation and come to an agreement. They win against you, eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF TORTURE IN THE ITALICS  
> TRIGGER WARNING: NONGRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF RAPE IN THE ITALICS  
> TRIGGER WARNING: GASLIGHTING IN THE ITALICS  
> SEE END NOTES FOR SUMMARY.

Conall sits quietly and listens to the long and convoluted tale that Zane tells him. Then he reads the letter Alexia wrote him. Then he has Zane tell him again, this time with pen and paper at his disposal. 

“All told,” Conall says, slowly, “There has, for some centuries, been a group of… scientists… who have decided to enquire into the state of being supernatural in order to harness the power we have and use it to their advantage. They have developed at least two processes by which a healthy person, male or female, supernatural or human, may be turned into a slave. 

“They were aiming for Alexia because she is a preternatural, and they have recaptured Lyall. He, in turn, elected to come here before the rest of the ship made it in order to draw the supernatural set closer to this… “Black Network”. This was done with the purpose of pressuring them and narrow their avenues of action. 

“You are the Captain of the ship The Atlas, which is manned exclusively by those who have escaped the Black Network’s clutches. The ship is the safest place from the Black network, and you are currently minding my wife and Gamma on it, which is why I cannot see them.”

“Correct,” Zane says. “I suspect we will be seeing Lyall soon. This is his home territory, and he’s already escaped once. It is likely they will move along with attempting to alter him faster than they normally. He is remarkably resilient,” Zane says. 

“So I propose a deal. My people need a home. We need a set territory to come back to, regardless of how far we roam. You, in turn, need information on the Black Network, and you need to rid England of this threat. We will work with you, and in exchange, we will have a permanent home in London, England.”

“All supernaturals pay some due to the queen.”

“I should think that is, in part, paid by ridding her of the sickness that is the Black Network,” Zane says, “but the details on that may be discussed later. For now, it is imperative to find out where they are operating out of. The process by which they steal the mind is torturous.”

 

…

 

_ You don’t know if you are awake or asleep, anymore. You don’t know if you are making noise or not. You merely know that you wish to die. Immediately. Evidently, you and Genevieve Lefoux have been marked for “Treatment Number Two”. It is fairly straightforward.  _

_ They keep the both of you on a diet of injections. The doctors do what they can to get a rise out of each of you. Sometimes, you here Genevieve’s whimpers, and you want, so badly, to kill everyone in the room and drag her to you. You don’t react, though. You cannot let them know that what they do to her hurts you more than anything they do to you.  _

_ Periodically, they bring in equipment to shock you with. That is when you usually lose the most time. After they have worn you down, they haul you up off the table and force you to walk down the hallways and to a large chamber. The chamber has nothing in the middle. The level they march you out onto is, in face, merely an inverted veranda, with railings with the exception of four points spaced evenly apart.  _

_ “How very weak,” Vulkasin says. His arms are crossed over his broad chest. He looks almost bored where he leans against the railing. They make you stand almost on your own at the edge of the veranda, eyes on the drop. _

_ “Really, Randolph, you should have just stayed with me.” _

_ “It couldn’t go on,” you say as they push you off. You scream as you go. Then, your mind and body are awash with the dull, hard pain of hitting the ground. It ripples through your body once, then again, and again. Still, you just stay there. _

_ “No, it could have. But you were selfish. You had everything. All you needed to do was be loyal to me,” Vulkasin says. You feel air on the back of your head, and you know pieces of your face and head are smashed. _

_ They leave you there to slowly piece yourself back together. When you feel almost whole again, they open doors at the very base of the chamber and haul you back up again. _

_ “But you did not want that. You wanted some vermin soul-sucker.”  _

_ They push you over. You do not know if you screamed on the way down. _

_ “You wanted a vampire. You wanted other men, as though I was not satisfying to you.”  _

_ You close your eyes, every breath painful. _

_ “I saw the way you looked at them. As though they had something to offer you that I could not provide. As though they were worth anything in comparison to me, your alpha. Your love.” Vulkasin spits at you. You hear footsteps, and you wonder whose they are. You feel yourself being hauled up, and this time you don’t bother to fight.  _

_ “Now look where you are,” he hisses as you lay on the floor again, in your own blood. You have to stop falling. They throw you down again, and you are stiffer this time around. _

_ “Banished by one alpha. Abandoned by another. A quick, damaged little fuck to a weak third,” he says, and his tone is so playful. _

_ “You were so bad for me. For us all,” you say. You are so sad by this. You would have loved to have what Vulkasin says you had. But you didn’t. You try not to fall so much on the way down again. _

_ “I was the best. It was me who found you, starving, packless, and alone in Siberia. It was me who fed you, who clothed you, who offered you healing from the mad alpha that turned you and the one you abandoned. It was me who kept you safe while you pieced your mind together.”  _

_ You start to cry. You miss the Vulkasin who did that. He had been so big and so protective over Lyall, who, never having had a genuine, healthy pack, was young in a lot of ways, though he was also as old as time in others. _

_ “I was the only thing you needed and you. Abandoned. Me. Just like your whore mother. Your gypsy father. Your unwitting stepfather. Your family. Your first pack. Your second.” Vulkasin is so mad at you now, and you just want to hide from him. You want to fly away from his words. He stalks after you as they drag you to the veranda. _

_ “The fucking alpha you traded me for doesn’t want you because you stabbed him in the back just to get him. You have not even told him of all you can do because you know, and I know, that he will use you like the others did. Like I never did.” Vulkasin steps up close to you and cups your cheek. He presses lips against your forehead, and you remember how it used to be, and you just want to fly away. _

_ “But it is all alright, now, Lyall, because you and I will be together, and there won’t be any need for these other, weaker, imposters.” _

_ They throw you down, and you just want to fly. You don’t want to fall again. Your back explodes in red-hot pain, and you fall slower this time. New limbs communicate that they, too, have been hurt. Your mind is swallowed by a haze of black, like there is nothing left to see, or do.  _

_ They haul you up and march you away from the chamber. You pass Genevieve, but it barely registers. You see the doctor, and he gives you a genial smile.  _

_ “Hello, Specimen 243. I see the procedure has worked.”  _

_ The doctor brushes a strand of hair from your face. You wonder when it got long enough to do that. Then you let the thought go. It isn’t important. What is important is you have been directed to lay out on the table. You try and get up onto it, but you can’t. Your arms are too weak.  _

_ You feel shame for a moment as they haul you up and strap you down. _

_ “It is quite alright, Specimen 243. The procedure can be very taxing,” The doctor says. You do your best to lay still for him. The doctor’s pleasure is a good thing, you know. It means you don’t get hurt.   _

_ “You will never worry again, with me,” Vulkasin as he kneels to make eye contact with him. You smile at him as your eyes close. That is okay. You are tired of fretting, anyways. You know, now, that you never should have left.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING SUMMARY: the Black Network goes ahead with a treatment for Genevieve and Lyall. The treatment involves being injected with strange substances, electrified, and thrown off a ledge until they grow wings. Genevieve is violated were Lyall can see/hear, and he has to do his best not to react so as not to encourage them. When it comes time for the second portion of Lyall's treatment, Vulkasin appears to taunt him. He shames him for wanting other men besides Vulkasin, and he tells Lyall how worthless he is and how Vulkasin is the one who saved him from the assholes of Lyall's past. He also tells Lyall that Vulkasin is the only one Lyall needs. Eventually, Lyall believes him. 
> 
> NOTES: 
> 
> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)
> 
> Special Announcement 6.15.2018  
> The Etsy will be open next Friday! Come by to see what I’ve got. I’ll post the link when it’s accessible.


	15. Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Channing informs Alexia of when he Vulkasin first showed signs of madness.

Six days. Six days, Alexia spends aboard the Atlas, Zane ferrying messages for her as the big, winged woman scrambles to find her crewmate. Alexia can’t take the innaction. She’s up pacing, periodically glancing at the metal door. She wants to go home. She wants to go outside. She wants to go get Lyall.

“If you go any faster, you may very well start a fire,” Channing comments from his place on the couch. He, too, has taken to penning letters to those concerned parties. Evidently, Alexia may be the better adapter, but Channing has more patience.

“At least that will be something,” Alexia responds. 

“What, precisely, are you worried about? Lyall has always been much more resilient than even I gave him credit for, even though I knew the details of the whole sordid affair with Alessandro. Truly, his adaptability is remarkable,” Channing says in a poor attempt at comfort. Alexia turns to him, even more irritated.

“Exactly! I have been reading-”

“When do you not-”

“And,” she stressed, “according to the records aboard the ship, the Black Network is old, and they are very good at what they do. This is not some amalgamation of bad character and secrets or a perfect storm. This is systematic. Does that not cause you worry?” Alexia asks. It has always bothered her that, of all people, Channing knew of Lyall’s activities before anyone else, but the blond had never reached out to comfort, or in solidarity. 

“It does, but I do have faith. Lyall is a slippery one at best. Sometimes I wonder if he was not trained before he arrived in England.” Alexia tilts her head.

“How do you mean, arrived? I thought Lyall was english born?”

“Oh, goodness, no. From Vulkasin’s talk, the two met somewhere in Siberia. I could not tell you of Lyall’s whereabouts before then, because they essentially joined up as two loners and made the journey here, but I would bet my title he is not English.”

“What was he like? Woolsey, I mean. Captain Zane mentioned Lyall speaking to him when under heavy enough duress.” Channing nods again.

“It is an old habit. Personally, I believe he’s ashamed of it. As far as I can tell, when he is suffering enough, he will sometimes see Woolsey, and be taunted by him. I’ve only seen it happen once, and that was years ago.”

“What happened?” Alexia asks, curious. She sits down on the other side of the couch.

“A month or so after Conall arrived, Lyall was out of his mind, trying to figure out if Conall was old enough to go mad while he was still alpha. The possibility was enough to keep him up for four days.”

“What did you do?” Alexia asks, intrigued. She’d never heard of a time when Lyall lost control. He was adept at getting others to lose control for him, after all.

“He was snapping at thin air to shut up. I told him Vulkasin has been dead for two fortnights, and asked if he was maybe considering joining him. Lyall responded that Vulkasin was right there.”

“And then?”

“I made him a particularly strange cup of tea. He was so deprived of rest or certainty that he did not even notice that I had put a sleeping draught in it. He was out within minutes. I took him to his room, and retired to my own,” Channing explains. 

“And what of Lyall?”

“He slept straight through the night and the next day. Evidently, Conall seemed to understand something of his predicament, because he left the man to his sleep and made excuses for his absence. When Lyall finally rose and realized that nothing had been set ablaze during his nap, he started to sleep more regularly. I never saw him speak to an apparition again, but I assume the response is still there,” Conall says. 

“As for Woolsey, I suppose it was wonderful, at first. He was English born, and our families had good report with each other. I was honored, I suppose, to be his gamma when he originally asked me. I had been a claviger at the time, and stuck between pursuing a military career as a lordling- my father was still alive, you understand- or as a werewolf.

“It was not Woolsey’s first time doing any of this, and he appeared to have all the answers I could ever ask of him. I was by no means fresh-faced, but I certainly felt like a babe in comparison to him. I did my third campaign as part of the regiment his pack was attached to. He offered the bite when we came home,” Channing said, face calm, eyes far away.

“Where was Lyall?”

“At his side. Always at his side. He had an accent, but it was not clear where he was from. I believe he must have done a great deal of travelling before he met Vulkasin. In any case, Lyall was there when I received my bite. I went on my fourth campaign as a seven year old werewolf. While out, Lyall and our old gamma, a man by the name of James, were both hit with shrapnel from the same round of grapeshot. Lyall survived. James didn’t.” At that, something like grief passes over Channing’s face, but it is gone just as quickly.

“I think that, had Lyall not been there, i would have been made gamma immediately following James’ death. Vulkasin and I were both grieving, and there was a whole in his pack that needed to be filled. Vulkasin seemed to get over James’ death almost overday. I think that was the first sign of his madness. It was also the first time Lyall interfered.”

“What happened after?” Alexia says. Not once, in all the time since she’d found out about Lyall’s actions nearly thirty years ago, had anyone taken the time to understand what it was like to live with Vulkasin. Oh, Alexia got the gist of it. His madness, his mistreatment of Lyall and, to a lesser extent, the rest of the pack, were all easy enough to understand, but no one had been forthcoming with the details, so it has always felt like these things happened to someone else. 

“Our tour ended. We went home. Our second night back, after reacquainting ourselves with our home and with the wolves that had stayed behind, Vulkasin took the both of us into town and said, and I do quote, ‘make what you will of tonight, lads. We have much work on the morrow.’ At that point, we disembarked from our carriage and found ourselves at the party of the season. There were women a-plenty, and while I did take Vulkasin at his word and found myself a pretty one to take home, Lyall did no such thing. 

“He seemed content to stay near Vulkasin, which I assumed had more to do with their history than it did with his unwillingness to loosen up after a tour. So I went on my way, and they went on their’s. We took the carriage over to a club a few hours later. The woman I had been with had needed to hurry away, lest she be caught. By this point I was drunk on the ambience, as well as on our victories at war and mine at women. Vulkasin was teasing Lyall, trying to get him to do anything that would be deemed inappropriate. 

“Lyall eventually joined a group of men at the billiards tables, and bested them one by one. Another group of men, possessing more skill than the last, joined him there. Vulkasin and I were also bested out of the running. We watched Lyall bet and win and bet and win until there was a single gentleman left. He was a large fellow, with a full beard and dark coloring. Lyall won against him too, but there seemed to be some sort of subtext in their motions. 

“They departed together, which is what Vulkasin had been pushing us both to do throughout the night. Vulkasin and I went home together. He was in a foul, dark mood. It took me far too long to realize he felt threatened, somehow, by Lyall’s taking up with another man.”

“But not women?”

“Heavens, no,” Channing responded, shaking his blond hair, “Vulkasin never saw women as his equals; they were never going to compete with him, in his eyes. But other men, on the other hand, somehow had that capability, despite not being werewolves. That was the second sign Vulkasin was losing his touch, really. There were other, smaller things, but Lyall was very good at hiding things. Even from us.”

“Had you realized what was going on, would you have helped him?” Alexia asks. Channing looks at her steadily for a few moments.

“In all honesty, I truly could not say. Vulkasin focused the brunt of his madness on Lyall; he didn’t mean to us what he meant to Lyall. By the time I realized how bad it was well, it was too late, and Lyall had already done the deed and Alessandro was dead.”

“Ah,” Alexia replied, sitting back. She had half hoped the answer would be an unequivocal yes, but if Lyall had had that kind of support, well, they would not be where they are now. 

“Indeed,” Channing says, and Alexia thinks she might see a little bit of regret before the doors open.

“My lady,” Captain Zane says, “You’ll be pleased to know that it is time to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)
> 
> Special Announcement 6.22.2018
> 
> Due to technical difficulties, the Etsy I’m working on will be up and running next Friday.


	16. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexia returns home to her pack. You become convinced that the doctor does care for you, and you should do what he says.

The moon is new, and the town is as dark as they come. A series of figures move pell-mell throughout the narrow alleys and broad main streets. The spread out, change directions, abandon their routes and invent new ones on the spot. Eventually, though, all of them converge on the Maccon townhouse. 

One by one, the figures enter quietly through windows that appear locked and doors that appear guarded. They converge in the main sitting room. Each guest is decked out in dark leathers. Their goggles are down over their eyes, half-hoods protecting their heads and necks. Canvas coats conceal weapons. Their scents are impossible to pick up. 

When they’ve all assembled, the begin to separate. It is then, and only then, that Conall is able to ascertain who is who. While only Zane is distinctive to him, he was still watching three different people, sure that one is his wife. Additionally, another four people could be his gamma. Hell if he knows. 

The men and women shuck their head gear one by one. 

“Alexia,” Conall breathes out, eyes going a little soft even as his gaze analyzes her from head to toe. 

“Hello, husband,” Alexia responds. She steps forward and holds out her hand. Conall takes possession of the entire extremity, gently cupping the elbow as he takes his first smell of her in too long. 

“Wife,” he murmurs. Conall withdraws, though he remains close enough to tuck Alexia’s hand into his elbow. His eyes find Channing’s.

“I trust you are both well?”

“Yes,” Alexia answers, “far better than one would expect after a kidnapping and counter-kidnapping.”

“Well,” Zane says as she, too, pulls her goggles down to her chest and stowes her hood in an inner pocket, “one does not go about making friends out of enemies’ enemies by treating their guests badly.” Conall nods in acknowledgement before he turns to one of the clavigers.

“Tea for all, please. And treacle, while you’re at it.” The claviger disembarks swiftly.

“I suppose we ought to all take a seat. We have much to discuss,” Alexia says after a moment of appraisal. Between Zane’s sharp wit and blunt personality and Conall’s matching temper and well-earned disapproval of being led about, she would bet that someone needs to mediate between them. A life hangs in the balance, after all.

“That we do,” Zane says. Cecily pulls her goggles down and rakes a hand through her roguishly dishevelled hair. 

“We’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Lyall, and we have yet to pick up any trends in kidnapping,” Cecily reports as she exchanges her hood for a small journal. As she and the other take seats around the sitting room, Conall wonders just how often they’ve don’t something of this nature. 

“I suppose that’s a good sign, then?” Conall asks. Zane shakes her head.

“I’ve never had a bout of silence from the Black Network that didn’t end in some sort of explosion,” she explains. “If they are making enough movements to pick of a pattern, then they haven’t found what they want. That they have gone so quiet now is more evidence that Lyall must have excelled at the process, and they want to finish the job.”

“Are we sure it isn’t something else?” Conall asks after a moment of bleak silence. 

“It could be, but that is my bet.”

“When they go about kidnapping,” Conall asks, “what sorts of people do they target?”

“My darling Alexia,” says a voice from the doorway, “why must you constantly have fun without me? And not to mention you’ve just come back from the most interesting kidnapping this year! A tragedy in more ways than one, I assure you.” Alexia stands to receive Akeldama’s full hug. The man may be playing at annoyed over missing the fun, but he’s certainly relieved more than anything. 

“I assure you, there was not much to it other than sitting. Truly, it is Lyall who is getting in on the action,” she says.

“Randy? Whatever could he want with any of this?” Akeldama asks, genuine surprise coloring his voice. 

“He was kidnapped out in Scotland, escaped somewhere over the ocean, and was captured again a week ago,” Alexia explains as Akeldama lets her go. 

“We are planning to kidnap him back,” Zane says from her seat. She’s taken up a sofa, Cecily on one side of her, and Willow on her side. Akeldama’s attention instantly snaps to her. In a second, he’s taken in her broad, muscled body, her pointed, hooked nose and proud face.

“I do not believe we’ve met,” Akeldama says. Zane rises and, in a moment, crosses the room. She gives a short bow.

“Captain Zane. It is a pleasure.”

“Lord Akeldama. Likewise.” There is a moment of stillness, and then Akeldama grins.

“Well, I suppose we ought to get on with collecting Randy, yes?” Zane nods.

“Lyall, or Basil, I suppose, was meant to come to London ahead of time to draw the Black Network out. He was in the process of this when he realized who, exactly, was targeting Lady Maccon. As I did not yet intend to reveal ourselves, he elected to draw both yourself,” she says with a nod to Lord Maccon, “in on a chase that would bring you closer to the Black Network by revealing their crimes while also making it harder for the Network to do anything covertly. He kept a record of his activities and his findings, but we have yet to decode it.”

“He wrote it in code? I had no idea he knew how,” Akeldama says, some measure of glee in his voice. The game is afoot, and it just gets more and more interesting.

“He can do a lot of things. It is part of the reason I did not send more than Armand with him.”

“What is the plan, then?” Akeldama asks. He is passed a tea cup.

“He has disappeared. I doubt we will see him again until they want him seen, so we will have to wait until something crops up.”

 

…

 

You disobeyed the doctor. He told you to… something. It is hard to remember. As a result, they’ve strung you up. Manacles pull your arms in opposite directions. You keep your eyes close as a whip cracks across your body again and again and again. 

They have long opened your back up, and blood goes flying with every stroke. 

“It is a shame, truly,” the doctor says behind you. Vulkasin gives the doctor a smile. He continues to raise his eyebrow and appraise you.

“I apologize,” you barely whisper. You lost your voice from screaming an hour ago.

“That is not enough,” the doctor says. He comes around to your front and lifts your chin.

“I know,” you answer.

“Good,” the doctor says. They continue to destroy your back and thighs.

You have to do better for the doctor. He is good to you now, as long as you don’t make a mistake. Privately, you think the doctor is strange. Sometimes, he hurts you for no reason, though you are sure it is only that you are too slow. Other times, he is strangely kind. He chooses to hand-feed you, and you do not understand this. 

You never understand things, anymore. 

The pain of your backside is so great that you do not register how the whips have ceased. The doctor moves into your vision, but everything is too blurry for you to respond.

“Specimen 243,” he says, and it sounds affectionate, “are you ready to listen now?” You nod as much as you are able. In the corner, Vulkasin smirks.

“You always were weak like that,” he says. 

“Good, Specimen 243. This assigment will please you, I think,” the doctor says as they get you down and let you collapse on your front on a gurney. Your limbs lay raw and bloody. They have to tie them down to keep them from falling off. 

“You are going home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 7.3.2018:
> 
> Yes, I know. I’m really, really late. Teenagers, right? In any case, it’s gotten to the end of a hard month, and I had a lot on my plate, and something had to give. In related, better news, Friday is still the update day, and this Friday will have all updates coming out on time. 
> 
> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
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	17. General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You lead the charge. Everyone else was prepared for it.

They show you to an armory, the doctor by your side. He leads you down rows of weapons. Some of them are new. The latest pistols and revolvers, updated muskets and rifles and grenades all of those line the walls. What you are told is a flame thrower draws your eye. It appears to be a tube attached by hose to a tank worn upon the back. 

There are ancient weapons as well. An english longbow, the draw heavy, and not for the easily tired, hangs prominently on the wall. Perfectly crafted arrows are laid out in front of it on a velvet cushion. Insignia are inscribed upon the bow and the arrow shafts.

Axes, both single and double bladed, shine dully in the gaslighting. Scimitars, rapiers, longswords, short swords and more leave their own dim impressions. Clubs, some spiked or wrapped in barb wire, others smooth, are mixed amongst them. 

Knives of every culture and every discipline lay in cases. Spears, some made for throwing, other sparring, are held in loose brackets. Spiked knuckle dusters are hung with small knails, as are whips, a spiked ball on a chain, and a cat o’ nine tails.

On shelves sit poisons and every method of delivery.

Of the most notable weapons are the flamethrower, a sword that comes to your shoulder, and a scythe. All of them have tat insignia on them. It appears to be an upside down tree. You wonder what it means, but do not stop to consider. That is not the question they asked you to answer.

No, what they want is for you to arm yourself. They have already attempted to ply you with armor, but you declined; you will need to travel some distance, and do not wish to announce your arrival.

You pick out a case of knives, a longsword, and a cane with that emblem at the head. It separates into a method of poison delivery as well as a rapier just long enough for you to use. Under the doctor’s watchful eye, you select an outfit to wear, and fit yourself into a greatcoat, weapon on and hidden. He pushes you to accept two more vials of poison,another set of knives, and knuckle dusters. You don’t fight him. You can use it all.

The doctor takes your face in his hands, and you look slightly up at him, waiting. 

“For the Network, Specimen 243,you will hunt the London Pack into extinction. Kill the alpha wolf and anyone else who may be involved. Bring me the female.”

“As you wish,” you say. You can barely get the words out.It has been days since you did anything except scream, and your voice is scratchy and damaged. Vulkasin nods his encouragement in the background. He gives you a soft smile when you look fully at him. 

“Does he still bother you?” the doctor asks, because he knows Vulkasin is there, and he cares. 

“Not anymore,” you answer.

“Yet he speaks.” You shake your head.

“He approves.”

 

…

 

Alexia, in the interest of remaining less of a (visible) target, has elected to go about like Captain Zane does. Given that it was Zane who originally drew her into a room on their own and wrapped her breasts so as to make them much smaller and less visible, she cannot find fault with the woman’s methods. After all, Zane also must wrap her torso. 

Conall, while hardly happy with the state of his wife and his affairs, cannot fault Zane either. After all, making Alexia look like them is a good way to make the entire crew more of a target. Zane had taken his wife’s safety seriously, which is a massively important thing in his book. Alexia sometimes does not take her own safety seriously. 

So Alexia is waiting with the rest of the London Pack, the crew of the Atlas, and all the clavigers and drones not out in the city right now. And then someone pokes their head in the door.

“A creature has been spotted flying over southern London, my lords and ladies. He or she is masked, and seemed unnatural. He or she is leading a large group of armored men and woman.” All eyes flick to Zane, whose own midnight wings are tucked against her body. She rises from the stool she was sitting on and adjusts her overcoat once more. 

“If that isn’t the Network, I do not know what is,” she says. She spares those gathered. “If that is truly Lyall up there, he will not be in his right mind. He may be recovered, though, so do not kill him or anyone else like him on sight. Corral, unmask, capture.” those assembled nod. Silently, the pour out of the largest sitting room of the Maccon townhouse.

“Weapons at the ready, lads and lasses. Tonight, we get back one of our own,” Zane calls. There’s something rougher about her. Something decidedly more street rat than noble woman or captain of a ship. 

She, along with everyone else, pulls down whatever headgear they are in possession of. Even members of the pack have armored themselves, as the Network has poison that can stop a shift, and they need to avoid it as much as possible. Conall and Akeldama have the same tense, excited look in their eyes. This is a hunt, and they’ve both been hunting for centuries. 

 

…

 

They meet the black network in a swarm. Conall and Alexia stick together. Zane goes with Akeldama, the former more than okay with the latter’s blood-thirstier tendencies. Zane looks up after successfully beheading a foot soldier (non-enhanced; death a forgone conclusion, Zane’s mind spits out) to spot a dark figure flying overhead.

“I have eyes on our general,” she yells.

“Do go, then,” Akeldama calls out from behind his mask. “I shall follow.” Zane spreads her albatross wings and, with a leap and a powerful pump, is airborne. Her wings, made for long-distance flights but not necessarily for speed, pump hard and fast in an attempt to keep up with the unknown leader. Whoever he or she is, they were made for pursuit.

They are also very, very new to flying. Against her better judgement (she doesn’t want to damage him/her. Not when she thinks she knows who it is), Zane gains height. She slips a knuckle duster out of her coat and prays she doesn’t have to use it.

There is a crystal clear moment where neither of them are moving tot he left or right. There is no banking. There is no gaining or losing altitude. It is just them, flying. One in pursuit, the other the quarry. Zane sacrifices her altitude by tucking her wings to her back. She drops like a stone

The momentum of her flight pushes her outwards at a diagonal. With her wings in close, she is just as fast in her free fall as her prey is in his flight. For a few moments, at least. A few moments is enough. She hits him or her dead on, her wings coming out to slow their fall and protect the other’s newly formed appendages. 

They hit the wide avenue with their speed greatly reduced. It is enough for Zane to roll them both and spare any injuries. Her quarry is fast, though, and efficient.

Despite having the breath knocked out of him/her and being abruptly grounded, Zane’s quarry nearly stabs her with a knife. Zane is on her feet and backing just out of reach. He- for she is sure it is a he, now- slashes at her with the knife in one hand. There is a sword in the other.

Zane does her best to keep her exact distance. If she backs up too far, he’ll escape, and she doubts the trick she pulled the first time will work again. 

“Akeldama! Your presence would be much appreciated,” she yells out as her quarry gets in another slash. This one lands on her upper arm, but doesn’t slice through the thin plate armor she’s wearing. Akeldama appears in a flash of blond hair and cologne. He is noticeably more dishevelled than he was about a minute ago.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they are trying to split up our well-timed union,” Akeldama says. He sounds somewhat offended as he joins Zane in keeping their assailant on the ground. 

“Yes. Because we are the biggest fish in the water.”

“Oh, I have no doubt who they are truly after, but if this is Lyall, well, I imagine Conall will fend for them both in this case. He will not mind us being late to his party.” Akeldama grunts as he narrowly avoids losing part of his windpipe to the longsword in the attacker’s left hand.

“After all, he wants dear Randy back almost as badly as you do.”

“All the same,” Zane spits out as she gets a lucky break and steps inside the reach of the longsword, “let us finish this.” At that same moment, Akeldama darts behind Lyall- and of course it is Lyall. What other darling werewolf fights like that?- and wrests his knifehand behind his back. He squeezes the wrst just so, and the fingers weaken. 

The weapon drops to the ground just as Zane literally rips away the headgear, revealing a snarling, half shifted, entirely mad Randolf Lyall.

“I would have been mightily disappointed if it wasn’t him,” Akeldama notes as he yanks both wrists high up on Lyalls back. It forces the other man to either raise up on his toes or lose the arms. Zane wedges a leg between Lyall’s thighs to make it hard to kick and knock him further off balance. 

Then, she brings up a thick cloth that had, so far, remained tucked inside her breast pocket. She presses it to Lyall’s nose and mouth, one hand clamped over the hinges of his jaw to keep it open. They hold for a full fifteen seconds before Lyall succumbs to the drug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
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	18. Insane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyall is free now, but you need a little help coming back to your mind.

In the warm light of gas lamps, Coriander Zane stands at attention, severe and, if Conall is reading her right, aggrieved.

“We need your help,” she says.

“What has happened?”

“We cannot reach him. His mind is too far gone, and I do not know him well enough to bring him back. At this point, maybe no one will, but if he is to come back, he will need the help of someone more familiar with him than I,” Zane explains. Conall sets his pen down and rings the bell. A claviger appears at the door.

“Let BUR know I will not be in today,” he says to the waiting human. Then, he looks back to Zane.

“I will see what I can do.” 

 

…

 

A roar rips down the hall. Conall’s gut twists at the sound. He sounds utterly mad. Another roar sounds as they pause.

“I cannot join you,” Zane says. If you must put him down, do it quickly.” Conall nods. Zane steps back. In the ensuing silence, another roar reverberates around the door. It vaguely sounds like Lyall is trying to says something.

The clink of chains being pulled on accompanies the sound. With one last nod and a deep breath, he twists open the handle. 

Lyall does not look good. He sits on his bum, legs in front of him, hands behind him, eyes glowing in rage and hatred. 

A loose pair of trousers is all he’s been afforded, as far as clothes go. His arms are bound in a complicated set of iron cuffs that extend from fingers to elbows. A matching set locks his calves into place. A full collar keeps him from getting to far from one spot, and the entire lower half of his face has been muzzled. 

Big, brown wings have been wrapped in canvas coverings so that they cannot flap or move all that much. Conall wonders if he has achieved some sort of partial shift, because there are gouches in the floor near his feet.

His nose is pulled up and his teeth are out in a snarl. The anger and the confusion in his eyes only seems to get worse now that Conall is here. There are two other people in the room with Lyall. They stand on either side of him, trying to get him to at least take an interest in the food, but it does not seem to be working. 

“I know you’re in there,” says one of the people. It’s Cecily. Her own wings- a pretty white color, flap in agitation as Lyall, once again, attempts to bite her hand off. 

“Enough,” Conall says at the fifth snarl that escapes Lyall’s muzzle. Cecily glances up, and something like fear curls in her eyes.

“Oh, no,” she says. But she withdraws with one last, pleading attempt to get Lyall to take the little hunk of meat in her hand.

“What are you trying to do?” Conall asks as Cecily joins him and the other person- Armand, withdraws. Lyall briefly calms down, but he’s still snarling something awful.

“Feed him. Reach him. Anything. I know his mind is still in there.”

“What makes you so sure?” Conall asks.

“Zane’s was. Mine was. He is having a bad time of it, but I know if we can just make even one connection, no matter how thin or fragile, we can get him back,” Cecily responds. Conall nods. It takes him too long to come up with a solution.

“Why not let him out of those chains?” he asks.

 

…

 

Conall stands in Lyall’s cage, his center of gravity dropped low, hands spread. He is ready. At his nod, Cecily and Armand pull their keys, which were inserted before hand. The pieces of metal twist, simultaneously freeing Lyall from his arm and leg restraints. Quick as ever, Lyall jumps to his feet. 

His hands snatch at the key in his collar, and that, too, comes away from him. He makes quick, frantic work of his great wings, and they buffet him once, twice, thrice. The cage’s ceiling, however, is far too low for flight. Eventually, they curl against his back, naturally settling out of the way.

Lyall, too, has dropped his center, and he begins to circle. Conall moves quickly, keeping his movements controlled.

“I know you are there, Lyall,” he says. His voice is pitched low, and it is as soft as velvet. Lyall snarls at him. Unlike when he is thinking things through, it is very obvious that Lyall is getting ready to jump at him. 

Conall is ready when the other man sinks even lower. He’s ready when Lyall’s momentum increases tenfold and he flies across the small space. Conall is ready when Lyall slams into him. The man may be as fast and as strong as he normally is, but he is nowhere near as smart nor as coordinated. 

In a blink of an eye, Conall has out maneuvered Lyall and slammed him against the bars of the cage. He uses his whole body to keep him there, so that Lyall’s legs are useless, as are his wings. Conall catches both hands as well.

“Lyall, listen to me,” Conall growls out, “whatever is going on in your head, it is not real. It is-”

_ “A trick,” he tells you. He is strong. Maybe as strong as Vulkasin. He will not let you go, no matter how you struggle. You snarl and scratch and try to bite him, but it just does not work the way it ought. _

_ “Come back to me, Lyall,” he says as you writhe, trying to escape, not wanting to be caught like this. You hate it when it is like this. Vulkasin once had you like this. _

_ “And you enjoyed it,” Vulkasin says he drapes himself over your attacker. “You enjoyed every bit of it. It is only later, when it was all said and done, that you took issue.” _

_ “I did not,” you say. You tried to tell him that then, too, but Vulkasin was never good at listening.  _

_ “You did. You loved it. Do you not remember?” Vulkasin asks you. He slides away from your attacker and nearer to you. You try to shrink away. _

_ “It was early in the evening. I sent a messenger on ahead to BUR to let them know you and I would not be in. But you did not know that. I called you my office. Do you remember? There was hardly a werewolf around. They were all either out working or they were in another part of the manor.” You shake your head again. You cannot continue to pay attention to your attacker when Vulkasin is speaking like this.  _

_ Vulkasin takes another step closer, and you move another step away. _

_ “You screamed, once, and then there was not another sound from you. The fire cast such lovely shadows on your body. Do you not remember?” _

_ “I do not want to,” You say, and your voice hitches. You do remember. You did not want to, but you knew he had been eyeing a young, pretty claviger. He was only a lad at the time.  _

_ “After that, I cleaned you up and put you to rest. Do you remember that? I was kind to you,” Vulkasin says as he moves a step closer. _

_ “Go away,” you say, and your hands tremble. You heart beats the frantic, cowardly beat of a rabbit. Vulkasin only moves closer. “Go!” You yell. You back hits the cage. There is no escaping in here because there is only Vulkasin and your attacker. You move behind the latter, hoping to hide from the former. _

_ “Get out! I do not want you! I never did!” you scream at him. _

_ “You loved me,” Vulkasin snarls back at you. You cover your mouth with your hands, trying to control how much you move. Vulkasin gets closer, and you seek refuge with the very man who tried to hit you before this. _

_ Strong arms, stronger than Vulkasins’, wrap around you. You lean heavily into them, suddenly too tired to do much more than that. They do not try and make you do anything. You look up and meet your attacker’s eyes and, oh, it was only Conall.  _

_ You jumped at him first, you suddenly remember. But he did not try and harm you. He only wanted you to stop, you know. _

_ “Make him leave,” you half beg, half order. You do not know a better way to ask that. Conall cocks his head. _

_ “Who?” he asks. He turns around fully. His other arm comes into play, and he tugs you closer. You go. As long as Conall is here, Vulkasin cannot touch you. _

_ “Vulkasin,” you say. _

_ “I will,” Conall promises he moves away, and sits down with his back to the bars. It leaves you alone in the middle of the room.  _

_ “Come here, Lyall,” Conall says. You do not know if he truly wants you. Surely he would not have moved away if he wanted you to follow? _

_ “Do not be afraid,”he says, and his voice and face are so kind. You remember wishing, with a longing so fierce it burned, for him to be your alpha. Not Vulkasin. Not any of the others. You feel compelled to move closer to him. He looks up at you and offers his hand. At his gentle tugging, you kneel on the ground in front of him and sway into his touch.  _

_ He had always kept you safe. Even when he found out what you’d done, he did not try to kill you. He only looked at you with a bottomless sort of sadness and anger. But he did not hurt you. He certainly did not try to make an injury last.  _

_ Conall rubs one broad hand up and down your back, easing an ache you did not know you had. You know you should not cry. _

_ “He never leaves me alone,” you say. You cannot help the tears. _

_ “I know,” he says. “I know, and it is going to be all alright,” he murmurs. You close your eyes. You do not want to think about what it will and will not be. You do not want to think at all, really. You fall asleep leaning into the embrace of your alpha.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)  
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	19. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conall and Biffy both address Lyall's drive to hunt the Black Network.

“What, precisely, are you doing?” Conall asks. He had scarcely left Lyall, finally asleep in a proper bed wearing proper nightwear, yesterday evening. Since then, he’s been bombarded by members of Zane’s crew. The blonde woman- Cecily, if he’s not mistaken- had been the most adamant in pushing for information about what he did to bring Lyall out of his, as they call it, madness.

After escaping their (admittedly extremely good and somewhat successful) attempts at keeping him there and answering questions, he’d fled home, only to be subjected to the same thing by his pack. And now he’s back aboard Zane’s ship, leaning in Lyall’s doorway. 

The other man had his head bowed over a knife. The shink of metal on a whetstone abruptly stops. Lyall raises his head to meet Conall’s eyes. 

“When they realize that I am in my right mind, and they  _ will _ , they will run. We will lose them, as well any they have managed to capture. My memories, hazy and incomplete as they are, grow more clear by the day. I can tell you with certainty that failure to move will cost us Genevieve Lefoux.”

There’s something intense and wild about the way Lyall looks at him. His hands are still clutching the knife and whetstone. His mask and goggles are sitting on the bed beside him, the polished leather shining black in the light. Conall takes a cautious step forward and sits with him on the edge of the small bed. 

“We will go after them. We will raise hell doing it. My question, though, is are you ready? You’ve only just come back to us, Lyall. Biffy has yet to calm himself, though I have told him you are faring better. He hides it well enough, but I believe your loss would hit him especially hard.”

“It does not,” Lyall says, then pauses. “Now is not the time to worry about me. There is something bigger going on then us.”

“The last time you acted on that philosophy,” Conall says evenly enough, “You nearly died. Alessandro did.” Saying the name of Lyall’s former lover is rather like a slap to face. Lyall jerks to his feet, but Conall catches his hand as he stands.

“This is not that,” Lyall hisses at him.

“Is it not, though? You taking responsibility for something that never should have fallen on your shoulders in the first place and doing your best for everyone, regardless of the injury to your person or your mind is not what happened last time?” Lyall tugs at his hand, but Conall does not let go. If Lyall truly wanted to be free, well, he would have tried a lot harder than that.

“I am not saying that you may not hunt the Black Network down. I am merely reminding you that you are not alone. Not by halves. If you need to stay behind, that is perfectly fine.”

Lyall turns his face away, genuinely considering staying behind. Now that he has a moment, Conall can’t help but notice the strange things about the room. Chests sit strewn about, some closed, but most of them open to reveal, of all things, caches of weapons. 

Knives, swords, guns, clubs, vials that Conall is sure contain poison of various kinds, all sit open and exposed to the room. There are other weapons, more kinds than what Conall can reliably name, but the common theme seems to be that Lyall is inspecting and cleaning all of them.

“I need to,” Lyall finally admits. His posture is, if possible, even more stiff than it was before.

“Why?” Conall asks. He’s using a quieter than he has had cause to use in a long time. The last occasion, he believes, was when Sidheag was but a babe and he had been tasked with settling her to sleep.

“He stole from. My mind. He took it. And played with it. I am. Not a toy,” Lyall finally gets out. “I am not a doll,” he finishes, quieter. Conall nods. The phrasing smacks of old wounds. Perhaps he would not be so driven or single-minded if this was his first go-round, but Vulkasin had done all the same things, without the use of injections. His death had left Lyall to put together pieces that Conall had never known were knocked loose in the first place. 

“I see,” he says after a moment. 

Conall knows he won’t dissuade Lyall from going after the black network, nor does he want to. He is too old, and too slippery to be contained by sheer force of will. He deserves absolution from all this in a way he never got with Vulkasin. Even after the man had died, Lyall had been chiefly responsible for putting the pack back into something that could be lead. 

Even now, Conall feels guilty. He never should have assumed that a man as dedicated and as caring as Lyall would not have taken the brunt of the damage from Vulkasin, no matter how much that damage just was not visible. Even knowing that a lot of that hiding was specifically because of Lyall’s machinations and the need to keep those away from Conall, it is hard to come to terms with the fact that so much damage had existed for years and he had never noticed. 

“Just do not do this alone,” Conall says.  Lyall looks at him, and, for the first time in a long time, something feels right between them.

“I will not.”

 

…

 

Biffy trails after Cecily, nerves twisting in his gut. He has not had the chance to see or sit down with Lyall for years, and yet here he is, about to spend the rest of his night and the day with him. He is equal parts nervous and excited. Amidst all the drama and the worry, he’d started to wonder if perhaps Lyall had outgrown Biffy. If even the promises of his future- leading the London Pack when Conall retires, having more than enough power and weight to keep them all safe and happy, and the youth to do so for a very long time- had faded in light of current circumstances. 

Even the reassurances of Conall and Captain Zane had not managed to shake the ever increasing fear that he is not enough anymore. That the extraordinary turns Lyall’s life has taken are enough to render Biffy obsolete. Without giving him a chance to back out, Cecily opens the door.

“Lyall. Visitor,” she barks. Then, she withdraws, gives Biffy a small shove into the room when he hesitates in the doorway, and leaves. 

“Biffy,” Lyall says. There’s a hesitation in his voice and his movements. He stands nearer to the bed than the desk, and he holds a small vial and a cloth in his hands. Biffy glances at the wall, only to realize that the large picture he’d thought he saw is, in fact, a map of London with pins in it. 

Chests sit stacked on top of one another against one wall. Conall had mentioned the weapons he saw earlier, and Biffy half wants to move them all out of here, so that Lyall will have an easier time resting. As it is, Biffy doubts the bed has served as more than a chair since Lyall woke up.

As if pulled by an invisible force, Biffy takes a step forward and takes Lyall’s hands in his. The beta meets his gaze, eyes haunted and wild. There is something distinctly untamed about him now.

“Tonight, stay with me,” Biffy says. He moves his face forward and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Lyall’s lips. After a moment’s hesitation, Lyall pushes bac just slightly. It is enough to let Biffy know this is not a mistake.

“Tomorrow, we will hunt them down. But tonight, let me help you, Lyall. Let me take you out of your mind.” 

Lyall turns away from Biffy. He sets the vial and the cloth down on his dresser and pulls open his suit jacket. Dark brown wings flair out of his back. They take up more space than Biffy had originally thought they might. All Biffy really wants to do is lay Lyall down and find out how to make those wings feel good. 

“I am no wolf. Not anymore,” Lyall says after a moment. He is still faced away, and Biffy can see, even with his face shadowed, just how much he is struggling to say this. “I am not fit for an alpha.” 

“Maybe not,” Biffy breathes. He draws up behind Lyall and runs gentle hands over the dark brown feathers before wrapping around. Lyall’s waist. “But that is my call to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)  
> My Etsy: Grace’s Journal (https://www.etsy.com/shop/GracesJournal)
> 
> The Etsy is alive and well! Come by to see what I’ve got for sale :)


	20. End Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The London Pack and the Atlas crew members, with help from Akeldama, storm the Black Network stronghold. Lyall and the Doctor meet again.

Lyall’s presence at the Maccon townhouse seems to roll through the hallways and into the rooms, bringing with it a sense of foreboding and caution. He is clad from head to toe in what he wore the last time Akeldama saw him. This time, though, intelligence hides behind his smooth, emotionless expression.

“ _ Dolly _ ,” Akeldama says. Lyall spares him a nod. “It is good to see you well,” the vampire continues. He sweeps in closer than most would dare and brings his hands up to Lyall’s own. By some miracle, he successfully takes a gentle hold of Lyall’s wrists.

“Unhand me,” Lyall responds after a moment. Akeldama smiles and complies. Together, the two, accompanied by Captain Zane, move into the dining room, where most everyone is gathered. 

“It is good to see you alive,” Akeldama murmurs as Lyall takes a seat near the end of the table. Lyall doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. Akeldama knows he’s got Lyall’s attention, even if they have yet to make more than a few seconds of eye contact. With Biffy on the other side of Lyall, well, things just keep getting better. 

 

…

 

_ “Do you know what you are?” the doctor asks. He runs a reverent hand down your torso. You say nothing. _

_ “Do you know what I have made?” the doctor turns away from you towards his guests. Behind you is the cage they just had you end. They had pitted you against three people at once, and you had come out victorious. The fighting had been quick and vicious as things you had learned a long time ago came to the surface. _

_ “Are you certain of his compliancy?” One of the gentlemen says. He steps around to see your back. Blunt fingers run along your feathers, testing your control. You do not react.  _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “I had my doubts about you, Doctor Casey. I see now that I should not have worried.” _

_ “Indeed. You truly are the Godmaker.” _

 

…

 

“Will you fare well?” Conall asks Lyall. The smaller man is studiously sharpening one of his knives. 

“He considers himself a Godmaker,” Lyall says. He sets the knife down and picks up the next one. 

“Does he?”

“He thinks he made me. What I am now, though, is not the result of his meddling. Many of the things he took credit for are… things I learned in my youth. A lot of it is from before I was ever turned. But he is arrogant, and he is a fool,” Lyall says quietly. He tilts his head up to look Conall in the eyes.

“He will learn, and it will be me that teaches him,” he finishes. It is such a quiet declaration, hardly audible to even Conall. Most things about Lyall, though, are quiet. That does not make him any less deadly or capable. 

 

…

 

They move like shadows, unseen and unacknowledged. They converge on a large townhouse, near where the Westminster hive was. Lyall, Zane, Cecily, and Armand are all in the air, along with a few other crewmates. They land first and wait. Conall, along with the rest of the werewolves, arrive in less than a minute, Rowan with them. 

They help the crew of the Atlas set up, then all eyes turn to Lyall. He has one hand raised by his head as he watches the house, only faintly lit from within. A carriage pauses in front of the stoop. A figure gets out and begins to ascend the steps, cane clicking against smooth stone. 

He knocks on the door. A sliver of light appears. Lyall drops his hand. The resulting explosions as several molotov cocktails are thrown at the door and the windows are loud and jarring and immediately alert anyone within to the issue at the front door. 

Before any defense can be mounted, supernaturals swarm the house, aided by their clavigers and drones. Akeldama and Zane work together at the front door, aiming to incapacitate while his drones quickly and efficiently drug the falling bodies and stop the bleeding. They need to take people alive. 

Conall is working from the back door, Channing on one side of him, Rowan on the other, in a similar manner. The rest of the werewolves work their way up, while Lyall leads part of the crew of the Atlas down, down, down. The house’s basement has a basement. In fact, it appears excavations was done again and again until there’s a veritable labyrinth leading down.

The remaining fighters take it by storm. They pass people in rooms, some half mad, others entirely there. In each case they check the doors before moving on. They need to stick together. As they go groups of people fire on them, causing the Atlas crew to advance on a room by room basis.

“ _ Godmaker _ ,” Lyall calls out. His voice echoes around them, powerful and mocking even through mask. “I know you’re here,” he sing-songs in a tone half an octave deeper than his normal speaking voice. “I can smell you.”

A figure appears at the end of one hallway. 

“That is what you get for goading him,” Cecily hisses at Lyall. 

“Heh,” Lyall answers, moving forwards to meet the newcomer. The man does not stop for pleasantries, merely charges directly at them. Lyall meets him halfway. It is a tight fit in the hallway, but the half spread  of his wings is enough to launch him down the corridor. He uses his legs to gain a little extra momentum and change his angle before he smacks right into the man.

They meet in the sickening thud of bodies. Lyall had gone low, while the man, with his bulk and his greater height, had not been able to compensate. As a result, the challenger goes flying over Lyall’s shoulders and ends up on the ground some distance away, where Cecily expertly undoes his mask and goggles.

“Are we dispatching them!?” she shouts as Lyall moves on.

“Incapacitate where you can! Make it quick where you can’t!” Cecily presses her cloth full of poison into the man’s face, rendering him unconscious in seconds. They make their way through the rest of the labyrinth like that, marking doors that do not open, but otherwise ascertaining themselves of the contents of each room. Some of them contain horrors.

A poor bastard had died just an hour before they’d arrived, and his body was still suspended on one of the medical tables Lyall, Cecily, and even Zane had spent far too much time on. There’s a room that stinks like rotting flesh, and Lyall recognizes it as the fighting ring he himself had spilled blood in. He wonders how he never noticed the smell before.

Mostly, though, things are clean, and put away. While the doctors and the guards of the Black Network sought to flee, a fair few were blocked before they could. Consequently many had fled underground, to any room they liked before Lyall and Cecily could clear the hallway. Consequently, they occasionally came out of doorways, weapons active and firing. 

It is long, slow, grueling work, but eventually the rest of the house is clear and they all gather on the lawn of the house. The doctors are all chained up and brought to jail, courtesy of BUR. The experiments are kept unconscious until their mental states can be gauged, one by one, by Willow. 

It is getting near dawn by the time they are done, and Akeldama, with a quiet tip of his hat, flees with the younger members of the London Pack. Lyall turns back to the house as their prisoners and, hopefully, their rescuees are carted away to sleep the day away.

“What are you thinking?” Conall asks as he comes to stand next to Lyall.

“All that work,” Lyall says. His wings shift, moving from a three quarter to a half fold, “and it is for this.”

“Perhaps they were more successful with others. No one really knows where you come from or what you did before this. It is possible they made a mistake.”

“True.” Lyall moves into the house as if in a trance. Conall goes to follow him, but pauses when he feels a hand on his arm.

“I would not, if I were you. He will come back when he is ready,” Zane says. Conall looks at her and, for the first time, sees something like affection on her face. 

“Very well.”

 

…

 

Lyall walks the halls of the house slowly. He moves past the breakfast table in a near trance. His eyes slide over the lovely furnishings of the best sitting room. They barely acknowledge the tasteful art someone had placed on the walls. 

One by one, he makes his way back through the sub basements. He reaches out one gloved hand, and runs his fingers over medical tables and equipment. He looks at bare spaces where they’d found extra vials of the drugs used to change him and the rest of the Atlas crew. The bookshelves have all been emptied, as well. This far down, the books had all been manifestoes of the goals of the Black Network.

As he wanders, his mind drifts, reliving not just this past half year, or so, but his entire near four hundred years of existence. He abruptly snaps back to reality when he hears a heartbeat. Like a switch had been flipped, all traces of reminiscence fades away, leaving nothing and no one but Lyall, hunter. 

He moves silently forward, towards the door of a room that had been bare with the exception of a single, empty desk and rickety chair. They had, evidently, missed a great deal of the room. What had once been bare stone and metal is now shelf upon shelf of journals, stacked ten high, their bottoms visible.

Additionally, other panels reveal vials of chemicals, books of varying thickness, and weaponry. A few journals, plus a small kit, sit on the desk next to a carpet bag. Lyall stands in the doorway, eyes on the Doctor.

“And here I’d thought you fled,” he murmurs. The doctor jumps and drops the vial in his hands. The glass breaks, and he picks up another without so much as looking down.

“I am on my way out, actually.” 

Now that Lyall could see him without the constant drugged haze and the pain, the Doctor appeared to be a very simple man. His suit is tweed, and it is mostly covered by a lab coat. His hair is light brown, his face is pleasant, if not remarkable, and his eyes are round and blue. They are slightly enlarged behind a pair of silver-framed spectacles. His is noticeably short in stature, about Lyall’s height, actually, and does not carry himself with any kind of air.

“Not anymore,” Lyall says. He may have called taunts down the hallway earlier, but truly seeing the doctor was something of a shock to the system.

“Oh, not this again. Listen, Specimen 243, and listen carefully. You will not stop me. I know parts of this house that not even other doctors know, and I can dwell here for far longer than one would think. At the first chance I get I will leave London and take my business elsewhere. All that has to happen is I need to stay hidden. Which leaves the issue of you,” the Doctor finishes.

He gives Lyall an appraising look. For his armor, Lyall feels naked as a blue jay under the Doctor’s gaze.

“I know some of what happened to you. You have such a propensity to talk to your demons, after all,” the Doctor continues. His voice is the softest Lyall has ever heard it. It makes something in him want to relax, head on the man’s lap. Lyall is disgusted with that part of himself. 

“You can come with me. You are, after all, a miracle. Stronger than nearly all specimens, if the journals left behind by other Doctors are correct. You merely need to be loyal, and not act outside of my purview, and you can forget about your troubles with the Kingair Pack, as well as with your alphas, dead, alive, and coming.” 

The Doctor is looking at Lyall with this sincere expression. Hope seems to glow behind those small lenses. HIs mouth is softly creased in a smile. Lyall wants to please him. A part of him is screaming to do something-- anything-- that would endear him to the Doctor. It is not as though the doctor had truly been cruel to Lyall. Sometime Lyall can be difficult, after all. 

And then Lyall realizes how close the Doctor has gotten. It is too late, though, because a sharp, burning pain has already lanced its way into a seam in his leathers and pierced him. Lyall stumbles back, trying desperately to keep his balance. He finds it against a wall. 

When he blinks himself through the pain, the Doctor is moments away from taking another stab at him. The knife plunges down, but Lyall buffets the man aside with a big, brown wing. As the Doctor falls, Lyall unsheaths one of his own knives and drives the point into the Doctor’s neck.

As Lyall watches the blood spurt out and musters past the resistence of flesh, his head gets dizzier and dizzier. Spots of color dance in front of his eyes and he slowly slides down the wall to sit watching the source of his pain and his nightmares for the last six months.

“Pathetic,” Vulkasin hisses at him.

“Why does it matter?” Lyall asks. He meets the man’s eyes. “You’re dead, anyways.”

“So are you, Lyall. Someone will always have to come and save your incompetent hide.”

“Well,” Lyall answers, “I guess I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> We just have the epilogue left, guys!  
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)  
> My Etsy: Grace’s Journal (https://www.etsy.com/shop/GracesJournal)
> 
> The Etsy is alive and well! Come by to see what I’ve got for sale :)


	21. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're at the end folks. Please let me know what you thought of it all :

“The Queen requests the return of her drone,” Lord Ambrose says. He’s stiff and uncomfortable in the presence of Lyall, Zane, Lefoux, Alexia, and Akeldama. 

“That is quite the demand,” Alexia says. “While I generally try not to interfere with the internal conflicts of vampires and their drones, this time the problem cannot be ignored.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Miss Lefoux was made exposed by the Woolsey Clan, which allowed her to be kidnapped in the first place. She is now no longer human, but part of the London Clan, under the direct protection of Lady Coriander Zane. She is no longer yours to keep, and personally, I would absolve her from any debt she still owes, even if she was.” 

Lord Ambrose opens his mouth to argue.

“Think very carefully on the merits of continuing,” Lyall interrupts. He stands from the table all of them are meeting at and tilts his head. “You may yet lose more than you bargained for.” 

Lord Ambrose makes a face like he would like to just do what he likes, and damn the consequences, but at the last moment, he shuts his mouth. Smart man.

 

…

 

Biffy and Lyall stand side by side in the early night light. Both of them had already dressed, eaten, and otherwise readied themselves for the night, and now stood together in Biffy’s room at the Maccon Townhouse.

“I do not suppose you can be convinced to stay,” Biffy says. It is not a real question, and he does not expect a real answer.

“I’ll be back. We’d known before I left the first time that it might take something like decades to get back to you, but that we would do it. At this point, the time I’ll be gone is now significantly shorter. If anything, this is an improvement,” Lyall says. Biffy lays his fingers against the old werewolf’s face. Lyall turns his head to press a kiss into his palm.

“I will be back,” Lyall reiterates.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Biffy says after a few seconds’ unreadable stare. “Just be careful, yeah?”

 

…

 

Their new ship, the Wayfarer, is a better, newer version of the original. Captain Lyall waves from the upper decks, along with any crew member not needed to get the ship into the air. As the boat raises up out of the water and glides out onto the open sea, headed for parts unknown, the London Pack and the London Clan desperately hope for their peoples’ safe return.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Constructive Criticism are appreciated.   
> Update day is Friday.  
> My tumblr: A Somewhat Ambiguous (https://asomewhatambiguous.tumblr.com)  
> My Facebook: Grace Augustine (https://www.facebook.com/grace.augustine.927980?ref=bookmarks)  
> My Twitter: GraceAugustin19 (https://twitter.com/GraceAugustin19)  
> My Etsy: Grace’s Journal (https://www.etsy.com/shop/GracesJournal)
> 
> The Etsy is alive and well! Come by to see what I’ve got for sale :)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, guys, first work for this fandom, so bear with me. The events of this verse are set three years after Timeless. All the history before that is still used here, but it's an AU from the first chapter onward. Please let me know what you all think. I eat sleep and breathe comments, even concrit. Especially concrit.


End file.
